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POETRY,  COMEDY,  AND  DUTY 


BY 


C.  C.  EVERETT,  D.  D. 

BUSSEY   PROFESSOR  OF  THEOLOGY  IN  HARVARD  UNIVERSITY 


^f 


31 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFL1N  AND   COMPANY 


1896 


Copyright,  1888, 
BY  C.  C.  EVERETT. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Prest,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A, 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


Stack 
Annex 


103  \ 


PREFACE. 

IN  this  volume  poetry,  comedy,  and  duty  are 
first  considered  separately.  In  the  "  Conclu- 
sion "  their  relation  to  one  another  is  indicated. 
This  relation  could  not  be  made  clear  without  the 
results  reached  in  the  separate  discussions  ;  with 
the  aid  of  these,  it  can  be  stated  very  briefly. 

In  the  treatment  of  the  separate  themes  the 
object  has  been  to  bring  out  what  seemed  most 
essential  in  regard  to  each,  and  to  associate  with 
this  one  or  two  other  aspects  of  the  subject,  those 
being  selected  that  seemed  most  important  and 
interesting.  Thus  the  study  of  "The  Philoso- 
phy of  Poetry  "  is  introduced  by  a  consideration 
of  "  The  Imagination  "  as  the  poetic  faculty  ;  and 
is  followed  by  chapters  in  regard  to  certain  as- 
pects of  nature  and  life  in  which  poetry  has 
found  its  most  abundant  material,  and  some  of 
its  highest  inspiration.  Under  the  title  of 
"Duty"  the  discussion  of  "The  Ultimate  Facts 


iv  PREFACE. 

of  Ethics  "  is  followed  by  a  study  of  the  aspects 
which  duty,  in  itself  at  all  times  the  same,  is 
tending  to  assume  at  the  present  day.  In  the 
treatment  of  "  The  Comic  "  the  two  elements  — 
the  primary  and  the  secondary  —  are  presented 
under  the  same  heading. 


CONTENTS. 


I.   POETRY.  PAGE 

THE  IMAGINATION    .       .       .               .       .  .        i 

THE  IMAGINATION  (continued)  ....        .  .25 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.        .       .       .  .      50 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY  (continued")      .  .      75 

THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE   .       .        .  .98 

THE  TRAGIC  FORCES  IN  LIFE  AND  LITERATURE  .    126 
II.  COMEDY. 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  COMIC  .       .        .  .155 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  COMIC  (continued)  .    191 

III.  DUTY. 

THE  ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS                 f  216 

THE  NEW  ETHICS    .        .       .        .        .       .  .    262 

IV.  CONCLUSION. 

POETRY,    COMEDY,    AND    DUTY,    CONSIDERED  IN 

THEIR  RELATION  TO  ONE  ANOTHER     .       .  .    306 


I   POETRY. 


THE   IMAGINATION. 

THE  imagination  is  in  a  special  sense  the  poetic 
faculty.  In  poetry,  indeed,  it  is  subject  to  certain 
technical  conditions ;  and  it  may  assume  various 
forms,  of  which  poetry  is  only  one  :  yet  when  we 
regard  definiteness  of  presentation  and  perma- 
nence of  result  upon  the  one  side,  and  freedom 
from  physical  relations  and  limitations  on  the 
other,  poetry  may  perhaps  be  regarded  as  its  most 
characteristic  expression.  However  this  may  be, 
the  imagination  is  absolutely  essential  to  poetry 
of  every  kind.  In  considering  the  nature  of  po- 
etry, it  is  therefore  important  to  regard  the  im- 
agination in  the  entire  range  of  its  activity. 

The  imagination  is  the  power  of  mental  vision, 
a  power  which  creates  that  which  it  beholds.  . 
What  might  seem,  from  this  statement,  to  be  two 
acts  is  really  but  one.  In  a  dream,  for  instance, 
the  mind  does  not  create  an  image,  and  then  per- 
ceive it ;  the  beholding  is  the  creation. 


2  POETRY. 

The  simplest  form  of  the  imagination  is  that 
by  which  the  mind  reproduces  for  itself  the  forms 
which  the  senses  have  presented  to  it.  The  cap- 
tain of  a  steamer  on  one  of  our  important  coast- 
lines once  told  me,  that  as  he  steamed  along  the 
coast  at  night  he  saw  constantly  passing  before 
him,  as  if  in  an  unfolding  panorama,  the  scenes 
near  which  he  was  moving.  Though  all  was  hid- 
den from  the  bodily  senses,  all  was  open  to  "  the 
mind's  eye."  This  discerned  the  whole  struc- 
ture of  the  coast,  hills,  forests,  and  towns,  pro- 
jecting capes  and  retreating  coves  ;  and  by  this 
mental  vision  the  pilot  guided,  always  with  suc- 
cess, his  vessel's  course.  It  was  as  when  one 
walks  down  a  familiar  street  in  a  thick  fog.  The 
houses  on  either  side  are  not  discerned  by  the 
eye,  but  the  mind  sees  them,  and  the  man  walks 
without  hesitation  or  perplexity. 

This  simple  power  of  reproducing  the  image  of 
that  which  has  been  seen  is  of  more  importance 
than  we  often  think.  That  is  a  fine  exercise  in 
some  schools  of  art  in  which  an  object  is  shown 
to  the  students  and  then  withdrawn,  that  they 
may  copy  it  from  memory  alone.  If  we  could 
learn  to  see,  to  look  accurately  and  take  in  the 
real  and  definite  form  and  color  that  we  see ;  and 


THE  IMAGINATION.  3 

then  if  we  could  learn  to  remember  what  we 
have  seen,  to  reproduce  it  to  the  eye  of  the  mind 
as  it  existed  for  the  eye  of  the  body,  life  would 
become  a  new  thing  to  us.  Suppose  we  could 
thus  recall  the  forms,  the  faces,  the  pictures,  the 
scenes,  which  we  had  thus  beheld,  how  would  our 
life  be  enlarged  !  If  the  traveller  in  Switzerland 
could  bring  home  in  his  mind  such  images  of 
what  he  has  seen,  —  the  peaks,  the  ranges,  the 
green  valleys,  the  leaping  cataracts,  the  glaciers 
stretching  like  seas  petrified  in  a  storm,  instead 
of  a  confused  mass  of  ice  and  snow,  with  vague 
mountains  huddled  together  in  shapeless  con- 
fusion, —  how  much  more  worth  the  while  would 
such  a  journey  be  !  When  shall  we  learn  that 
the  great  business  of  education  is  not  to  cram 
the  mind  with  facts,  but  to  train  it  to  observe, 
to  remember,  to  think,  to  deal  rightly  with  all 
the  material  that  comes  to  it,  and  thus  to  make  it 
the  master  of  itself  and  of  the  world  ?  This  is  the 
real  end  of  education  ;  and  in  this  the  training  of 
the  imagination,  even  in  the  simple  form  under 
which  I  have  defined  it,  holds  no  small  place. 

But  this  which  I  have  named  is  only  a  small 
part,  indeed  the  smallest  part,  of  the  function  of 
the  imagination.  Not  merely  does  it  reproduce 


4  POETRY. 

for  the  mind  that  which  the  eye  has  seen  ;  it  goes 
beyond  this.  It  separates  the  elements  of  that 
which  has  been  beheld,  and  recombines  them  in 
new  forms.  It  goes  farther  than  this.  It  intro- 
duces new  elements.  It  creates  for  the  mind 
that  which  the  outward  senses  could  not  discern. 
In  all  this,  however,  it  keeps  true  to  the  lessons 
it  has  learned.  Even  where  it  changes  that 
which  has  been  beheld,  even  where  it  introduces 
new  combinations  and  new  elements,  it  yet  holds 
itself  in  sympathy  with  nature,  follows  her  lines, 
and  so  works  that  its  results  are  one  with  her 
creations.  Thus  the  poet  can  write  of  the  tem- 
ples that  the  imagination  has  reared  :  — 

"  And  Nature  gkdly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat." 

We  may  here  distinguish  between  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  fancy.  The  imagination  follows  the 
lines  of  nature.  Its  creations  take  their  place 
with  her  works.  It  brings  to  light  what  is  hidden 
in  nature,  or  what  she  is  striving  to  accomplish. 
The  fancy  works  more  independently.  It  for- 
sakes the  intent  of  nature  and  adopts  ends  of  its 
own.  It  combines  the  elements  of  nature  arbi- 


THE  IMAGINATION.  5 

trarily  and  artificially.  Thus  the  fancy  brings  to- 
gether parts  of  the  man  and  of  the  horse,  and 
creates  the  centaur ;  the  imagination  creates  the 
Apollo.  Fancy  creates  the  dainty  Ariel ;  imagi- 
nation creates  Miranda  with  her  sweet  and  inno- 
cent wonder.  The  world  of  fancy  may  be  beau- 
tiful and  fascinating,  full  of  airy  and  delicate 
shapes  ;  we  find  in  it  enjoyment  and  refreshment : 
but  it  is  a  world  apart  from  the  real  world.  The 
world  of  imagination  may  be  more  natural  than 
that  of  nature  herself. 

Through  this  relationship  to  nature,  the  imagi- 
nation may  be  an  aid  even  in  the  investigation  of 
science.  Professor  Tyndall,  in  that  remarkable 
essay  entitled  "The  Scientific  Use  of  the  Imagi- 
nation," well  illustrates  this  fact. 

Science  seems  cold  and  hard  ;  it  seems  sternly 
intellectual ;  it  appears  to  have  to  do  only  with 
the  most  solid  facts  :  but  yet  this  science  yields 
itself  to  the  guidance  of -the  imagination.  Its 
grandest  discoveries,  indeed  all  its  grand  discov- 
eries, have  been  made  when  it  has  left  the  region 
of  the  seen  and  the  known,  and  followed  the  im- 
agination by  new  paths  to  regions  before  unseen. 

I  here  use  the  term  "  imagination  "  to  express 
that  insight  which  anticipates  the  result  of  con- 


6  POETRY. 

scious  analysis  and  induction,  and  leaps  to  con- 
clusions which  under  its  guidance  this  reasoning 
at  last  attains.  The  propriety  of  this  use  of  the 
term  may  appear  from  the  fact  that  at  first  the 
regions  thus  laid  open  are  purely  imaginary,  that 
is,  they  have  no  recognized  reality  except  that 
which  the  imagination  gives  to  them  ;  and  fur- 
ther, from  the  fact  that  the  insight  thus  reached 
is  the  result  of  the  constructive  power  of  the 
mind.  The  'known  and  the  unknown  are  com- 
bined in  a  structure  which  the  mind  has  created 
by  a  single  and  largely  unconscious  act.  This 
act  is  equally  constructive,  whether  the  result 
be  one  that  can  be  represented  in  pictured  form 
or  not.  In  either  case,  it  represents  a  whole 
which  is  the  creation  of  the  insight  that  perceives 
it.  Such  imagination  is  the  inspiration  of  sci- 
ence, and  without  it  the  grandest  results  of  sci- 
ence would  not  have  been  attained. 

In  the  essay  of  which  I  have  spoken,  Tyndall 
shows  how  by  the  aid  of  the  imagination  science 
reaches  the  conception,  not  only  of  that  which 
has  never  been  discerned  by  the  senses,  but  of 
that  which  by  its  very  nature  can  never  be  dis- 
cerned by  them.  Thus  by  the  aid  of  the  imagi- 
nation has  been  reached  the  conception,  the  vast- 


THE  IMAGINATION.  7 

est  which  thought  in  regard  to  material  things 
has  ever  reached,  —  that  of  an  ethereal  substance 
stretching  farther  than  the  farthest  world,  cloth- 
ing the  whole  boundless  universe  with  light  as 
with  a  garment,  an  infinite  ocean  whose  undula- 
tions ripple  into  light  and  beauty.  The  image 
of  the  sea  rolling  up  its  pebbly  shore  furnishes 
to  the  imagination  an  instrument  by  which  the 
movements  and  effects  of  this  infinite  ocean  are 
made  almost  visible.  These  movements  and 
these  results  furnish  the  most  interesting  and 
important  elements  of  our  modern  science ;  and 
yet  this  ocean  the  imagination  alone  discovered, 
it  alone  has  sounded  and  explored,  and  it  alone 
has  seen  or  can  see.  So,  too,  are  revealed  to 
us  those  particles,  infinitesimally  small,  which 
we  are  told  give  to  the  heavens  their  blueness, 
and  furnish  the  tints  which  make  the  glory  of 
the  evening  and  the  morning  sky  ;  those  parti- 
cles which  thus  are  the  instruments  of  much  of 
the  sweetest  and  sublimest  beauty  of  the  world, 
but  which  the  essayist  to  whom  I  have  referred 
believes,  if  they  were  all  swept  together  so  that 
the  spaces  of  the  heavens  should  be  left  blank 
and  bare,  "  could  all  be  held  in  so  small  a  com- 
pass as  a  gentleman's  snuff-box."  These  atoms 


8  POETRY. 

must  increase  mightily,  we  might  almost  say  in- 
finitely, before  they  can  come  within  the  ken  of 
the  most  delicate  microscope.  They  are  thus  the 
creatures  of  the  imagination,  and  must  always 
remain  her  property  alone. 

The  imagination  is  equally  powerful  to  perceive 
the  relation  between  objects  and  elements  that 
before  had  seemed  utterly  distinct.  Newton,  if 
the  old  story  be  true,  watching  the  fall  of  the 
apple,  began  dreaming  of  the  movements  of  the 
stars.  His  imagination  leaped  to  a  conception 
which  embraced  the  universe.  Science  tried  to 
prove  whether  this  conception  were  true  or  not 
in  a  body  so  near  us  as  the  moon,  and  she  pro- 
nounced it  false.  Only  years  later  did  she  ac- 
knowledge her  mistake,  and  admit  that  the  imag- 
ination was  right  after  all. 

The  discoveries  of  science  soon  become  to  the 
minds  of  most  men  hard,  cold,  prosaic  facts.  We 
forget  that  when  they  first  dawned  upon  the  mind 
of  the  discoverer  they  came  as  poetry.  They  were 
the  outgrowth  of  the  imagination,  which  is  the 
poetic  faculty,  and  were  surrounded  with  the 
glow  and  the  glory  of  poetry.  What  vision  of 
the  poet  by  which  the  sublimities  of  the  heavens 
offer  themselves  under  some  new  guise,  or  make 


THE  IMAGINATION:  9 

some  new  revelation  of  their  inmost  nature,  is 
more  worthy  the  name  of  poetry,  more  rouses  the 
spirit  to  the  enthusiasm  of  surprise  and  admira- 
tion, than  that  revelation  of  the  meaning  and  the 
mystery  of  the  lightning  -  flash  which  came  to 
Franklin,  whom  we  are  accustomed  to  regard  as 
the  most  prosaic  of  Americans !  When  I  think 
of  that  familiar  picture  of  the  flying  kite,  the 
lowering  storm-cloud,  and  the  waiting  explorer 
full  of  the  sublimity  of  his  dream  about  the  clouds, 
and  of  eagerness  to  learn  whether  it  would  prove 
true,  it  seems  to  me  the  triumph  of  the  poetic 
element  in  the  world  of  facts.  Or,  if  we  take  a 
larger  and  grander  illustration,  how  prosaic 
seems  to  us  now  the  theory  of  the  planetary  move- 
ments !  But  what  must  have  been  the  feeling 
of  the  man  upon  whom  first  dawned  the  thought 
that  perhaps  the  earth  moves ;  in  whose  mind  the 
thought  gathered  clearness  and  definiteness,  until 
it  reached  the  certainty,  the  certainty  of  the  in- 
tuition of  the  imagination,  that  the  world  does 
move !  It  sometimes  seems  to  me  that  it  must 
have  been  the  most  thrilling  moment  in  the  his- 
tory of  man.  This  old,  solid  earth  that  had  been 
the  one  fixed  thing  in  the  universe,  that  had  been 
the  one  symbol  of  the  immovable,  —  this  old, 


10  POETRY. 

solid  earth  was  torn  at  last  from  its  moorings, 
and  turned  adrift  upon  the  great  ocean  of  space ; 
nay,  was  sent  spinning  and  whirling  through 
the  great  vacancy  with  nothingness  above  it 
and  beneath.  The  very  foundations  of  all  things 
were  removed.  There  must  have  been  a  sense 
of  homelessness,  of  eternal  wandering,  mingled 
with  the  joy  of  the  sublimity  of  the  new  vision 
of  the  ordering  of  the  universe. 

If  it  be  thought  that  these  moments  of  insight 
and  of  creation  must  have  been  prosaic  because 
they  occurred  in  the  midst  of  the  scientific  in- 
vestigation of  truth,  we  must  remember  that  they 
were  moments  in  which  the  imagination  was  su- 
preme, and  the  imagination  is  always  the  same, 
always  full  of  the  glow  and  the  enthusiasm  of 
poetry.  But  when  we  say  that  these  discoveries, 
the  discoveries  for  instance  of  Newton  and  Frank- 
lin, were  the  creation  of  the  imagination,  we  must 
remember  that  it  was  the  imagination  of  Newton 
and  Franklin,  of  men  who  had  lived  in  such  close 
sympathy  with  nature  that  they  could  anticipate 
her  revelations,  just  as  two  friends  may  live  to- 
gether so  intimately  and  sympathetically  that  one 
can  anticipate  the  words  and  thoughts  of  the 
other.  Mere  guesses  of  ordinary  men,  dreams  of 


THE  IMAGINATION.  •  II 

mere  dreamers,  gain  no  new  right  and  dignity 
from  such  triumphs  of,  the  imagination  which  are 
the  play  of  minds  thus  trained. 

As  we  look  over  the  world  to-day,  we  find  no- 
where the  imagination  more  active  and  eager 
than  in  the  realms  of  science.  So  far,  indeed,  as 
science  presents  itself  to  the  popular  apprehen- 
sion, the  imagination  seems  its  ruling  spirit. 
The  theory  of  development,  for  instance,  which 
is  gathering  so  many  facts  about  itself,  which 
has  been  so  largely  accepted  by  scientific  men, — 
that  theory  according  to  which  the  great  barriers 
by  which  species  and  genera  are  separated,  and 
the  different  ranks  of  being  are  held  each  in  its 
place,  are  seen  to  be  removed,  and  these  ranks 
of  being  pass  one  into  the  other,  the  lower  into 
the  higher,  the  creeping  things  standing  erect 
or  taking  wings,  the  silent  acquiring  the  gift  of 
song,  the  dumb  the  power  of  speech,  the  irra- 
tional becoming  the  possessors  of  genius,  —  this 
theory,  whether  it  be  true  or  false,  is  as  really  a 
creation  of  the  mind  as  the  Fables  of  JEsop,  in 
which  the  monkey  and  the  fox  talk  together. 
The  fable  may  be  more  fanciful,  the  theory  may 
be  more  imaginative.  Whether  true  or  false,  it 
fits  in  with  the  great  lines  of  nature  so  as  to  be 


12  POETRY. 

worthy  of  being  called  a  product  of  the  imagina- 
tion ;  but  it  no  more  than  the  fable  has  any  basis 
of  experience.  If  through  the  barriers  that  sep- 
arate one  rank  of  being  from  another  were  ever 
flung  open  gate-ways  of  communication,  they 
were  like  the  doors  that  in  the  Arabian  tales 
opened  into  the  solid  mountain-side  and  closed 
again  leaving  no  scar.  If  these  ranks  of  being 
ever  rose  and  moved  in  glad  procession  along  the 
upward  slope,  each  passing,  by  no  matter  how 
slow  a  step,  out  of  its  own  limitations,  and  in  it- 
self or  its  posterity  entering  upon  a  larger  life,  it 
was  before  the  eyes  of  man  were  opened  to  be- 
hold. No  searching  of  his  awakened  powers  can 
detect,  even  among  the  remains  of  an  unknown 
antiquity,  any  glimpse  of  the  great  movement 
while  in  process  of  accomplishment.  All,  as  he 
looks  upon  it,  is  as  fixed  as  the  Sphinx  that  slum- 
bers on  the  Egyptian  sands.  All  this  story  of 
transformation  and  activity  is  a  dream. 

In  saying  this  I  would  not  be  understood  as 
implying  doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  the  system. 
Indeed,  the  only  pertinence  of  the  reference  to  it 
here  is  found  in  the  assumption  of  its  truth. 

In  what  has  been  said  of  the  importance  of  the 
imagination  in  scientific  research,  nothing  has 


THE  IMAGINATION.  13 

been  further  from  my  thought  than  to  imply  that 
it  may  take  the  place  of  this.  The  imagination 
simply  carries  a  divining-rod,  which  may  suggest 
in  what  direction  research  may  be  pushed,  and  it 
may  complete  the  results  of  research  when  this 
has  done  its  best.  It  is  surprising  how  little  we 
really  see  of  what  we  think  we  see,  or  hear  of 
what  we  think  we  hear.  In  reading,  how  few 
notice  a  typographical  error !  How  the  eye  is 
pained  in  reading  words  printed  in  an  unfamiliar 
alphabet !  This  is  because  one  has  to  see  dis- 
tinctly every  letter,  whereas  in  the  case  of  the 
familiar  alphabet  one  takes  simply  the  general 
impression.  The  early  phonograph,  if  one  knew 
what  it  was  saying,  seemed  to  speak  with  abso- 
lute 'distinctness.  If  one  did  not  know,  it  was 
absolutely  unintelligible,  as  the  consonants  were 
not  sounded.  Such  illustrations  show  how  the 
imagination  completes  the  report  of  the  senses, 
and  brings  a  whole  out  of  fragments.  So  it  com- 
pletes the  work  of  scientific  investigation,  and 
from  a  few  points  that  have  been  thus  established 
it  constructs  some  well-rounded  theory,  which  we 
can  hardly  realize  was  not  completely  bodied 
forth  in  them. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  in  the  practical  af- 


14  POETRY. 

fairs  of  life  the  imagination  fills  a  place  no  less 
real,  if  less  prominent,  than  that  occupied  by  it 
in  the  world  of  science.  Here,  however,  I  must 
speak  with  somewhat  less  confidence,  since,  so 
far  as  I  know,  we  have  no  inside  view  of  the  mat- 
ter from  any  business  man,  similar  to  that  which 
ProfessorTyndall  gives  in  regard  to  science.  The 
position  of  the  imagination  would,  however,  seem 
to  be  somewhat  the  same  in  each.  The  plodder 
in  business  is  the  man  who  goes  no  farther  and 
no  faster  than  actual  experience  would  justify. 
There  is,  on  the  other  hand,  a  genius  for  affairs 
as  truly  as  for  science  and  art.  In  every  case, 
genius  works  less  by  a  process  of  conscious  rea- 
soning than  by  the  flash  of  intuition,  and  less  by 
abstract  conception  than  by  a  prophetic  behold- 
ing of  results.  Indeed,  the  very  word  "  intuition  " 
signifies  a  beholding.  Such  intuition  is,  then, 
the  creative  act  of  the  imagination,  which,  per- 
ceiving new  relations,  forms  fresh  combinations, 
pictures  contingencies  as  really  existing  and  fu- 
ture things  as  present.  The  man  lives  among 
these  visions  more  really  than  among  the  actual 
things  about  him.  His  investments  are  guided 
by  this  vision  of  that  which  as  yet  has  no  sub- 
stance, and  a  new  fortune  is  the  result 


THE  IMAGINATION.  1 5 

But  here,  as  before,  we  must  notice  that  it  is 
in  general  the  imagination  of  the  trained  mind 
that  does  this  work,  though  here,  as  everywhere, 
it  is  probable  that  genius  may  sometimes  take 
the  place  of  training ;  but  it  is  the  imagination, 
trained  or  untrained,  and  not  fancy.  The  man  of 
fancy  also  dreams  dreams,  and  risks  his  money 
on  their  truth ;  but  has  left  only  the  memory  of 
his  wasted  means  and  of  his  palaces  in  the  clouds. 

Another  illustration  of  the  same  thing  is  found 
in  the  fact,  that  after  a  certain  point  has  been 
reached  the  results  of  business  activity  possess  a 
value  that  is  largely  imaginary.  The  man  does 
not  see  his  wealth,  and  from  the  greater  part  of  ' 
it  he  derives,  and  can  hope  to  derive,  no  tangible 
advantage. 

The  fact  we  are  considering  deserves  an  im- 
portant place  in  our  estimate  of  the  world. 
Truly,  as  the  proverb  says,  "One  half  of  the 
world  does  not  know  how  the  other  half  lives." 
The  poet  or  the  student,  living  largely  in  the 
region  of  the  imagination,  wonders  how  life  is 
possible  amid  the  cold  and  hard  realities  of  the 
world.  He  thinks  that  life  without  the  play  of 
the  imagination  would  be  unendurable.  In  this 
he  is  right  He  is  wrong  in  supposing  that  the 


1 6  POETRY. 

imagination  is  excluded  from  these  so-called  prac- 
tical affairs.  The  word  "  poet,"  as  we  all  know, 
means  maker,  and  every  maker,  the  money-maker 
as  truly  as  the  maker  of  statues  or  of  verses, 
though  in  a  less  degree,  is  also  a  maker  in  the 
poetic  sense  of  the  word ;  that  is,  he  is  one  who 
creates  by  the  power  of  the  imagination.  The 
inventor,  the  builder,  the  successful  man  every- 
where, works  by  the  aid  of  this  power.  We  call 
the  earth  solid.  We  speak  of  the  hard,  unyield- 
ing rock ;  but  yet  nothing  is  solid,  nothing  is 
unyielding.  Each  atom  of  the  firmest  rock  floats 
in  an  atmosphere  of  its  own.  No  atom  touches 
another.  They  approach  one  another,  and  recede 
from  one  another  in  the  whirls  of  an  endless 
dance ;  but  they  touch  one  another  never.  So 
we  speak  of  the  hard,  practical  affairs  of  life, 
as  though  from  these  were  excluded  the  play 
of  the  imagination,  the  dream  of  the  poet.  But 
all  the  creations  of  man  rest  upon  the  same  foun- 
dations ;  they  are  united  by  the  same  cement ; 
they  rest  upon  and  are  pervaded  by  the  imagina- 
tion. This  is  the  creative  power  of  the  mind. 
It  is  the  vital  activity  of  the  mind  ;  and  without 
it  man  could  not  live.  It  must  be  admitted  that 
in  business  enterprise  the  imagination  is  not 


THE  IMAGINATION.  I/ 

manifested  in  its  full  beauty.  It  is  limited  in  its 
scope.  It  does  not  set  the  spirit  free  from  per- 
sonal ends.  But  we  must  not  on  this  account 
fail  to  recognize  what  it  really  does  accomplish  in 
giving  interest  and  largeness  to  the  life. 

I  have  thus  spoken  of  the  imagination  as  it 
lends  itself  to  the  uses  of  science  and  of  affairs.  I 
have  wished  to  win  confidence  for  it  by  showing 
that  even  in  realms  which  seem  most  remote 
from  its  true  life,  it  is  accepted,  under  certain 
conditions,  as  a  guide  ;  that  all  the  grandest  re- 
sults, even  in  the  worlds  called  unimaginative, 
are  accomplished  by  its  aid.  If  this  is  so  even  in 
regions  where  it  might  seem  least  at  home,  must 
it  not  be  true  in  what  we  recognize  as  the  realm 
more  peculiarly  its  own  ?  Must  it  not  there  de- 
mand especial  confidence  ? 

I  know  that  as  the  imagination  begins  to  work 
in  a  more  independent  way  it  is  followed  by  the 
protests  of  those  who  had  made  glad  use  of  it  be- 
fore. It  is  looked  upon  by  its  former  masters  as 
a  good  servant  if  well  trained.  But  the  question 
arises,  Is  this  position  the  only  and  true  position 
of  the  imagination  ?  Is  it  merely  a  servant  ?  To 
whom  does  the  world  really  belong  ?  Is  science 
the  mistress  of  the  world  ?  Is  business,  using  the 


1 8  POETRY. 

word  to  cover  all  the  so  called  practical  enterprises 
and  occupations  of  life,  —  is  this  the  rightful  mis- 
tress of  the  world  ?  I  would  do  all  honor  to  those 
which  rank  among  the  noblest  occupations  of  the 
mind ;  but  when  they,  or  the  faculties  that  find 
in  them  scope  for  their  activity,  unite  to  oppress 
the  imagination,  to  keep  her  in  a  position  of  ser- 
vitude, they  need  not  be  surprised  that  she,  at 
last,  asserts  her  rightful  claims.  Though  she 
be  patient  and  helpful  as  Cinderella  herself,  the 
time  must  come  when  she  shall  take  her  true  po- 
sition, and  her  sisters,  that  so  long  have  treated 
her  as  their  servant,  shall  be  glad  to  render  her 
their  homage. 

For  let  us  ask  again,  To  whom  does  the  world 
rightfully  belong  ?  Let  us  put  the  matter  to  a 
test.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  the  world  especially 
belongs  to  the  faculty  that  creates  it  for  us  ;  the 
faculty  from  whose  hands  we  receive  it.  Which 
faculty  thus  produces  our  world  ?  Let  each  make 
the  trial.  The  business  faculty,  I  think,  will 
quietly  withdraw  from  the  comparison,  however 
loudly  it  may  afterward  enforce  its  claims  upon 
the  street.  Let  science,  then,  as  representing 
the  understanding,  make  the  first  attempt.  Let 
her  bring  all  her  methods  and  appliances ;  let  her 


THE  IMAGINATION.  19 

bring  her  magnificent  logic  of  induction,  and  let 
her  furnish  to  the  mind  the  world  that  she  needs 
for  her  own  experiments ;  or  let  her  even  assure 
the  mind  of  the  existence  of  this  earth.  Science 
will  accept  nothing  that  she  cannot  demonstrate : 
let  her  demonstrate  the  reality  of  the  existence 
with  which  she  busies  herself,  and  thus  let  her 
prove  herself  to  be  the  rightful  mistress  of  the 
world.  The  data  given  her  are  a  few  sensations. 
Out  of  these  she  has  to  construct  the  world  that 
the  mind  recognizes,  or  to  demonstrate  the  reality 
of  this  world  so  that  the  mind  will  accept  it  solely 
on  the  strength  of  this  demonstration.  Why  does 
she  not  begin  ?  She  stands  silent  and  powerless. 
Now  let  the  imagination  try  her  power.  She  has 
only  a  few  sensations  to  work  with,  the  same 
material  that  was  offered  to  her  rival.  These 
are  enough  for  her.  She  bids  the  mind  look,  and 
the  world  stretches  before  it,  the  world  of  moun- 
tains and  rivers  and  plains,  the  world  of  forests 
and  cities,  the  world  of  science  and  business. 
Where  did  this  world  come  from  ?  How  out  of 
these  few  sensations  has  it  been  constructed? 
Whence  comes  its  roundness,  its  solidity,  its 
varied  forms,  each  complete  in  itself,  yet  each 
helping  to  form  the  vast  completeness  of  the 


2O  POETRY. 

whole  ?  How  was  the  sudden  transformation 
wrought?  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  only  know  that 
it  is  the  work  of  the  imagination.  She  touched 
these  few  sensations  and  they  became  the  world, 
the  world  of  strength,  of  life,  of  beauty,  which 
the  mind,  moved  by  its  own  instinctive  faiths, 
accepts  as  a  reality  so  soon  as  it  is  looked  upon. 

Shall  we  say  that  the  imagination  is  so  akin  to 
the  creative  Power  of  the  universe  that  the  mind 
feels  that  her  creation  is  one  with  that  of  this  in- 
finite Power,  and  thus  accepts  it  in  the  place  of 
that  ?  However  this  may  be,  the  world  as  it  ex- 
ists for  us  is  the  creation  of  the  imagination,  and 
we  accept  it  at  her  hands.  This  fact  has  been 
recognized  by  the  most  profound  philosophies. 
The  power  which  created  for  us  the  world  of  sen- 
sation and  perception  Kant  and  Fichte  unite  in 
calling  the  Productive  Imagination. 

If  the  imagination  created  the  world,  we  must 
admit  that  it  belongs  to  her.  She  is  its  queen 
by  virtue  of  this  right.  She  lends  it  to  science 
to  analyze,  to  study,  to  reason  about.  She  lends 
it  to  business  to  work  with,  or  to  play  with, 
whichever  word  we  choose  to  take.  She  loves  to 
see  her  world  thus  occupied.  She  plays  the  part 
of  a  genial  and  helpful  hostess.  She  will  lead 


THE  IMAGINATION.  21 

science  in  her  explorations  through  regions  that 
she  knows  well,  because  they  are  her  own.  She 
will  guide  and  suggest  and  be  as  helpful  as  she 
can.  She  will  whisper  to  business,  and  hint  where 
her  treasures  lie.  But  when,  because  she  is  thus 
helpful,  she  is  regarded  as  a  servant  only,  and  her 
guests  begin  to  lord  it  over  her,  and  she  is  treated 
as  the  airy  Ariel  was  treated,  only  the  service  to 
which  she  is  held  is  to  be  perpetual,  then  she 
may  well  assert  her  right  of  sovereignty. 

Thus  the  test  we  choose  decides  between  the 
conflicting  claims.  It  is  like  the  slipper  of  glass 
which,  fitting  the  delicate  foot  of  Cinderella, 
proved  her  the  prince's  chosen  bride.  But,  not 
content  with  this  mere  demonstration,  the  maiden 
of  the  story  pulled  the  other  slipper  from  her 
pocket,  and  then  at  the  god-mother's  fairy  touch, 
stood  arrayed  in  the  splendor  that  befitted  her 
estate.  Thus  the  imagination,  from  the  mere 
demonstration  of  her  rights,  passes  to  the  hardly 
needed,  though  welcome,  illustration  of  them. 
She  further  shows  her  creative  power  by  complet- 
ing the  structure  which  had  been  left  unfinished. 
Art  and  poetry  are  methods  or  instruments  of  the 
imagination,  and  these  complete  the  world.  The 
forms  of  life  as  we  see  them  are  not  perfect 


22  POETRY. 

Life  as  we  see  it  is  not  perfect.  It  may  be  press- 
ing forward  towards  perfection,  but  the  perfec- 
tion is  not  yet  attained.  Further,  the  perfection 
that  the  world  has  cannot  fully  manifest  itself. 
Art  puts  the  finishing  touch  to  this  which  has 
been  left  incomplete.  It  gives  us  the  ideal  man, 
the  ideal  life,  the  ideal  nature.  As  we  look  upon 
them  we  feel  that  this  is  the  real  man,  the  real 
life,  the  real  nature.  The  imagination  has  brought 
to  light  the  mystery  of  the  world.  She  has  placed 
before  us  that  up  towards  which  nature  was  striv- 
ing, that  without  which  nature  is  incomplete, 
that  which  is  thus  the  reality  of  nature.  The 
men  that  we  see  are  not  the  true  men.  The  true 
man  we  find  in  the  Apollo  of  the  Vatican.  In- 
deed, we  do  not  see  men.  We  see  about  us  forms 
which  represent  men  ;  but  their  deep  inner  life 
is  hidden  from  us.  If  we  would  really  see  men 
we  must  turn  to  Shakespeare.  So,  too,  the  per- 
fect life  to  which  the  moralist  and  the  philanthro- 
pist would  point  us  is  the  ideal  life.  It  is  as  yet 
largely  a  dream-life.  It  is  the  goal  of  humanity. 
Its  reality  and  its  glory  are  the  explanation,  be- 
cause they  are  the  stimulus,  of  the  struggles  of 
humanity ;  but  as  yet  they  are,  in  their  fulness, 
the  possession  of  the  imagination  only.  If  once 


THE  IMAGINATION.  2$ 

the  ideal  life  actually  trod,  in  living  shape,  the 
earth,  we  have  now  to  reconstruct  it  for  ourselves, 
by  the  help  of  the  imagination,  out  of  the  few 
shining  fragments  that  remain. 

Thus  does  the  imagination  further  prove  her 
right  to  the  world  by  the  completion  of  it.  It  is 
as  when  Virgil  would  prove  his  ownership  of  the 
poem  which  he  had  formed,  by  placing  upon  the 
wall  the  riddle  of  the  unfinished  lines.  Thus 
does  imagination  prove  her  ownership  by  her 
completion  of  her  work. 

Another  illustration  of  the  position  which  the 
imagination  holds  in  the  world  may  be  found  in 
the  permanency  of  the  results  which  are  specially 
due  to  her  power.  Works  of  science,  of  philoso- 
phy, treatises  on  practical  matters,  and  nearly  all 
productions  of  a  kindred  nature,  in  time  become 
obsolete.  They  either  lose  their  value  or  are  val- 
uable only  as  helps  in  constructing  the  history  of 
their  time.  But  a  genuine  product  of  the  imag- 
ination, whether  in  literature  or  art,  has  an  eter- 
nal value.  It  is  as  fresh  at  the  end  of  centuries 
as  at  the  time  of  its  creation.  The  ancient  Aryan, 
standing  at  the  very  beginning  of  history,  felt  the 
beauty  of  the  Dawn,  and  uttered  "this  sense  of 
beauty  in  hymns  which  thrill  us  now  across  all 
these  thousands  of  years.  Greek  art  and  poetry 


24  POETRY. 

are  as  fresh  to-day  as  the  works  of  our  contempo- 
raries ;  fresher,  indeed,  so  far  as  they  are  more 
beautiful  than  they.  If  any  system  of  philoso- 
phy retains  its  youth  as  the  works  of  the  imagi- 
nation retain  theirs,  it  is  because  it  is  akin  to 
them.  The  philosophy  of  Plato  rests  upon  the 
imagination.  It  is  in  its  essence  poetry.  It  rests 
upon  the  assumption  that  the  ideal  is  more  real 
than  the  actual.  The  actual  things  about  us  are 
only  the  imperfect  images,  the  fleeting  shadows 
of  the  ideal  things  which  only  the  soul  sees,  and 
which  alone  are  eternal.  It  is  this  element  in  the 
works  of  Plato  which  has  made  them  a  perennial 
source  of  joy  and  inspiration. 

I  suppose  that  the  reason  why  the  works  of  the 
imagination  are  thus  enduring,  why  beauty  is 
thus  immortal,  is  that  here  something  is  com- 
pleted. Something  has  reached  a  perfect  issue, 
and  here  the  creative  power  of  the  universe  may 
pause.  Everything  else  is  in  process.  Systems, 
plans,  theories,  hurry  on  one  after  the  other. 
Knowledge  becomes  lost  in  larger  knowledge. 
Nothing  is  an  end  in  itself,  but  that  in  which 
some  ideal  of  the  soul  has  assumed  perfect  form. 
That  object  in  which  this  has  been  accomplished 
is  taken  out  of  the  whirl  of  things,  and  set  apart 
in  its  completeness  to  rest  in  immortal  youth. 


THE  IMAGINATION  (continued). 

WE  are  now  ready  to  compare  the  imagination 
with  the  faculty  of  the  mind  that  is  most  dis- 
tinctly opposed  to  it.  This  antithetical  faculty 
is  the  understanding.  The  understanding  repre- 
sents the  mind  in  its  analytical  activity,  as  the 
imagination  represents  it  in  its  constructive  ac- 
tivity. Practically,  analysis  is  for  the  most  part 
connected  to  a  greater  or  less  degree  with  syn- 
thesis. We  can,  however,  abstract  it  from  all 
connection  of  the  sort,  and  consider  it  purely  in 
itself.  The  understanding,  then,  gives  us  the 
details  of  prose;  the  imagination  gives  us  the 
fulness  and  unity  of  poetry.  The  understanding 
thus  claims  to  give  us  the  actual ;  the  imagination 
gives  us  the  ideal.  The  understanding,  tearing 
the  world  apart,  analyzing  it  into  its  ultimate  par- 
ticles, gives  us  the  poor  fragments  that  remain 
as  its  equivalent ;  the  imagination  rests  content 
with  nothing  less  than  the  rounded  beauty  of  the 
whole.  Which  of  these  is  nearer  right  ? 


26  POETRY. 

You  examine  a  painting  with  a  microscope  and 
report  all  that  you  can  find.  You  analyze  it  into 
its  approximate  elements,  and  discover  the  oil  and 
the  lead  and  the  canvas,  and  whatever  else  entered 
into  its  material  structure.  These  elements  you 
give  to  us  and  say,  Here  is  your  picture  of  which 
you  made  so  much  account ;  you  see  all  that  there 
was  of  it,  a  little  canvas,  a  little  lead,  a  little  oil. 
But  have  we  here  all  the  elements  of  the  paint- 
ing ?  Was  there  not  something  else  ?  Was 
there  not  something  that  fled  before  the  analysis 
of  the  understanding,  something  even  that  the 
microscope  could  not  discern  ?  Was  there  not 
present  the  ideal  which  exists  for  the  imagina- 
tion only,  the  ideal  which  used  these  poor  ele- 
ments and  gave  them  all  their  worth  ?  This 
ideal  has  a  reality  independent  of  that  of  the 
medium  through  which  it  manifests  itself.  It 
existed  before  it  used  this  material ;  it  exists 
after  the  material  has  been  destroyed.  It  may 
use  other  material  for  its  manifestation.  The 
perfect  pictures  of  Raphael  are  copied  in  stone 
upon  the  walls  of  St.  Peter's.  If  the  ideal  is  as 
perfectly  represented  as  before,  nothing  is  lost 
by  the  change.  The  substance,  the  reality  of  the 
picture  may  be  thus  transferred,  and  does  this 


THE  IMAGINATION.  2/ 

ideal  go  for  nothing  ?  Shall  we  accept  as  the 
equivalent  of  our  painting,  as  the  reality  of  it,  any- 
thing that  leaves  this  out  of  the  account  ? 

And  yet  this  is  the  way  in  which  many  at 
the  present  day  would  treat  the  world.  There  is 
a  tendency,  more  or  less  pronounced,  to  explain 
everything  from  below  upwards  ;  to  place  the 
emphasis  on  physical  facts  and  relations.  I  would 
not  speak  slightingly  of  the  service  which  the 
investigations  and  theories  of  science  have  ren- 
dered to  the  world.  I  would,  indeed,  join  in  the 
acclaim  with  which  such  service  has  been  re- 
ceived. It  is  only  against  the  neglect  of  ele- 
ments, of  which  such  investigations  and  theories 
would  make  small  account,  that  I  would  protest. 
This  protest  is  not  aimed  against  physical  science 
itself;  this  is  doing  nobly  its  special  work.  It 
is  aimed  at  the  error  of  taking  the  results  of  phys- 
ical science  as  if  they  contained  the  whole  truth, 
or  even  the  most  important  elements  of  truth. 

I  believe-  all  that  the  botanist  tells  me  about 
the  flower.  I  follow  with  intense  interest  his 
analysis.  But  if  he  sees  in  the  flower  nothing 
more  than  his  analysis  can  show  him,  then  the 
little  child  that  claps  its  hands  in  delight  at  the 
beauty  of  the  first  blossom  of  the  spring  sees 


28  POETRY. 

the  flower  more  truly  than  he  does.  I  believe 
all  that  the  anatomist  tells  me  of  the  structure 
of  the  human  body.  His  study  of  bone  and 
muscle,  of  nerve  and  artery,  brings  to  light  facts 
of  wonderful  interest.  But  if  he  finds  in  man 
nothing  but  what  his  study  of  anatomy  can  reveal, 
then  the  little  child  that  rests  in  sweet  trustful- 
ness in  its  mother's  arms  is  nearer  to  the  truth 
of  things  than  he  is.  The  Buddhist  saw  in  man 
only  a  walking  skeleton.  Behind  the  fairest 
smile  he  saw  only  the  grinning  skull.  This  is 
not  a  cheerful  view  of  life  ;  neither  is  it  the  true 
view. 

There  is  something  in  the  universe  which  the 
scalpel  and  the  retort  cannot  discover.  The 
whole  is  more  than  the  sum  of  its  parts.  The 
whole  is  more  real  than  its  parts.  The  ideal 
is  more  real  than  the  actual.  In  this  Plato  was 
right.  The  ideal  is  a  greater  power  in  the  uni- 
verse than  the  actual.  It  destroys  the  actual 
that  it  may  fulfil  itself.  The  oak  which  the 
little  sapling  is  to  become  is  more  real  than 
it,  for  the  little  sapling  yields  to  its  power  and 
becomes  the  oak.  If  the  theory  of  development 
be  the  truth,  then,  far  back  in  the  ages,  when  the 
earth  swarmed  with  reptiles,  and  later,  when 


THE  IMAGINATION.  29 

creatures  more  perfect  to  a  large  extent  replaced 
these,  through  all  this  succession  of  forms  the 
ideal  man,  though  non-existing,  was  yet  more 
real  than  they ;  for,  pressing  on  through  all  of 
these,  he  transformed  them  more  and  more  into 
his  own  likeness,  until  at  last  he  stood  forth  in 
his  true  nobility.  These  lower  forms  were  but 
the  masquerading  garments  of  the  real  presence 
and  power  that  were  hidden  in  them.  So  to-day, 
as  in  all  periods  of  human  history,  the  ideal  state 
is  more  real  than  the  existing  state.  We  know 
that  it  is,  because  it  shatters  the  existing  state 
into  fragments,  or  transforms  it  by  slow  degrees 
into  itself.  Thus  hath  God  chosen  the  things 
which  are  not,  to  bring  to  nought  things  that  are. 
There  is  in  nature  and  in  life  an  infinite  ful- 
ness which  escapes  the  analysis  of  the  under- 
standing. If  you  doubt  this,  look  abroad  over  the 
earth.  What  is  the  ocean  ?  The  chemist  will  tell 
you  what  it  is.  It  is  water  containing  in  solution 
a  certain  proportion  of  salt  and  of  other  elements. 
Such  is  the  ocean.  This  is  all  that  any  analysis 
can  find  in  it.  'But  what  and  whence  is  its 
beauty,  its  sublimity  ?  We  have  already  seen 
what  constitutes  the  blue  of  the  heavens.  We 
have  in  imagination  gathered  in  a  single  snuff- 


30  POETRY. 

box  the  points  of  matter  with  which  the  depths 
of  space  are  strown ;  against  which  the  minute 
undulations  of  an  invisible  ether  dash,  and  thus 
produce  the  blueness  of  the  sky.  This  is  all  won- 
derfully interesting.  It  gives  a  possible  explana- 
tion of  the  blueness  of  the  heavens  ;  it  gives  no 
hint  of  an  explanation  of  their  divine  beauty. 

I  call  the  power  of  apprehending  beauty  that 
of  the  imagination,  because  it  is  a  manifestation 
of  the  constructive  intuition  of  the  soul.  The 
unity  of  the  object  found  beautiful  is  not  in  it- 
self, except  as  some  power  akin  to  that  which 
finds  it  there  embodied  it  in  the  material  atoms 
which  make  up  the  outward  reality.  If  I  enjoy 
the  beauty  of  a  picture,  I,  so  far  as  I  am  able,  re- 
construct the  ideal  which  inspired  the  artist  and 
presided  over  his  work. 

Beauty  represents,  the  wholeness,  the  life,  the 
ideal  element  of  the  world.  This  xhe  imagination 
lays  hold  of.  The  understanding  cannot  grasp 
it,  because  no  material  analysis  can  reach  it.  It 
is  interesting  to  see  the  straits  to  which  men  are 
reduced,  who  feel  the  power  of  beauty  in  the  outer 
world,  who  are  thus  forced  to  recognize  its  pres- 
ence, but  who  yet  would  be  loyal  to  the  under- 
standing only.  Tyndall  has  an  imagination  as 


THE  IMAGINATION.  31 

keen  as  that  of  any  poet,  an  imagination  which 
continually  finds  in  the  most  delicate  and  truthful 
phrases  of  the  purest  poets  its  best  utterance. 
He  loves  the  mountains.  He  loves  to  climb 
their  snowy  sides.  Difficulties  only  inspire  him. 
His  labor  is  its  own  great  reward.  But  as  he 
enjoys  this  play  of  the  physical  nature,  — for  to 
his  athletic  frame  this  toil  is  only  play,  —  he  is 
conscious  of  a  joy  that  is  not  merely  that  of  the 
physical  exertion ;  a  joy  that  comes  to  him  from 
the  mountains.  In  some  way  they  have  a  power 
over  him.  They  thrill  and  exalt  his  spirit  He 
is  a  philosopher  and  he  will  explain  this.  Or 
rather  he  is  a  man  of  science  and  as  such  loyal 
to  the  understanding.  The  companions  of  his 
studies  are  men  of  science ;  most  of  them  more 
purely  men  of  the  understanding  than  he,  men  in 
whom  the  imagination  has  less  place.  He  would 
justify  to  them  and  to  himself  this  unscientific 
enthusiasm  for  the  beauty  of  the  Alps.  His 
mind  is  too  sharp  and  logical  to  be  imposed  upon 
by  any  theory  which  would  make  this  enjoyment 
the  result  of  association  from  his  earlier  years  ; 
for  he  tells  us  that  as  a  boy  he  loved  nature. 
He  falls  back  to  "  the  forgotten  associations  of  a 
far-gone  ancestry,"  and  regards  these  as  probably 


32  POETRY. 

the  most  "  potent  elements  in  the  feeling."  He 
here  rejects  one  element  and  accepts  the  other 
of  Herbert  Spencer's  explanation  of  the  peculiar 
enjoyment  of  natural  scenery.  The  first  element, 
that  which  results  from  our  own  early  associa- 
tions, we  must  with  Tyndall  reject  as  an  explana- 
tion of  the  mystery.  It  is  a  mistake  to  say  that 
in  general  our  appreciation  of  natural  scenery 
grows  with  our  growing  years.  Professor  Tyn- 
dall, as  we  have  seen,  loved  nature  as  a  boy. 
Wordsworth  cries :  — 

"  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky. 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man." 

The  poet  was  fortunate  that  he  could  add  this 
last  line  ;  for  too  often  the  love  of  the  beautiful 
fades  out  of  the  mind  as  years  go  on.  Elsewhere 
Wordsworth  himself  tells  us  that  even  for  him 
there  had  "passed  a  glory  from  the  earth."  Men 
have  confessed,  even  in  the  presence  of  Niagara, 
that  the  fall  of  some  little  stream  had  more  power 
to  move  them  in  their  youth  than  the  sublimity 
of  this  mighty  cataract  had  in  their  maturity.  If 
we  lived  aright,  perhaps  this  would  never  be  so. 
As  we  do  live,  it  is  the  case  too  often.  This 


THE  IMAGINATION.  33 

shows  at  least  that  these  early  associations  are 
not  the  prime  elements  of  enjoyment. 

But  how  is  it  with  the  forgotten  associations 
of  a  far-gone  ancestry  ?  These  forgotten  asso- 
ciations of  an  unknown  ancestry  form  now  the 
stronghold  of  the  so-called  experience-philosophy. 
It  draws  not  only  from  the  associations  of  human 
ancestors  which  have  become  embodied  in'  the 
brains  of  their  descendants,  but  upon  those  of  a 
succession  almost  infinite  of  the  lower  types  of 
creation  out  from  which  the  human  type  has 
been  by  slow  degrees  evolved.  When  a  system 
retreats  to  such  strongholds  as  this,  and  loses  it- 
self in  such  mazy  labyrinths,  it  may  well  feel 
secure.  But  I  think  that  the  case  in  which  Pro- 
fessor Tyndall  falls  back  upon  the  theory,  fur- 
nishes a  test  of  its  truth  or  falsity  more  accurate 
than  we  could  have  expected. 

Before  applying  this  test,  however,  we  may 
pause  for  a  moment  to  notice  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  careful  methods  that  men  of  science 
use  in  matters  that  belong  to  the  physical  world, 
and  the  frequent  looseness  of  their  reasoning  as 
soon  as  they  enter  the  realm  of  philosophy.  It 
would  sometimes  seem  as  if  they  fancied  that 
here  all  is  guess-work,  and  that  one  guess  is  as 


34  POETRY. 

good  as  another.  There  is,  for  instance,  a  style 
of  reasoning  often  called  the  Post  hoc  ergo  proptcr 
hoc  argument.  It  is  to  the  effect  that  if  one  event 
is  seen  to  follow  another  it  must  be  the  result  of 
it.  A  man  takes  a  medicine  and  gets  well ;  there- 
fore, he  argues,  the  medicine  cured  him.  The 
savages  shout  and  make  all  the  noise  they  can 
during  an  eclipse.  This  has  always  been  done 
within  the  memory  of  man,  and  the  eclipse  has 
always  come  to  an  end :  what  more  could  they 
want  to  prove  that  the  outcry  put  an  end  to  the 
eclipse  ?  This  kind  of  reasoning  is  not  in  very 
good  repute  among  scientific  men,  and  methods 
have  been  devised  by  which  such  looseness  of 
thought  may  be  avoided.  One  of  these  is  called 
"the  method  of  difference."  It  asks  whether 
the  fact  to  be  explained  ever  occurs  apart  from 
that  other  fact  which  is  assumed  to  be  its  cause. 
If  it  does,  it  is  obvious  that  the  assumption  is 
false.  Now,  in  the  theory  to  which  we  have  re- 
ferred, Mr.  Spencer  uses,  and  Professor  Tyndall 
cheerfully  accepts,  an  argument  of  the  simplest 
Post  hoc  ergo  propter  hoc  order.  Wordsworth 
drew  inspiration  from  the  presence  of  nature ; 
his  savage  ancestors  once  hunted  and  fished  in 
the  wilderness  :  what  could  be  more  obvious  than 


THE  IMAGINATION.  35 

that  we  have  here  effect  and  cause  ?  We  can 
only  regret  that  Wordsworth  lived  before  this 
important  discovery  had  been  made.  It  might 
have  modified  some  of  his  poems  essentially.  In 
his  simplicity  he  sang  :  — 

« I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thoughts, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains. " 

Perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  to  re-shape  these  lines. 
All  that  is  necessary  is  to  amend  by  striking  out 
all  before  the  "  therefore,"  and  inserting  a  state- 
ment more  in  harmony  with  the  phase  of  modern 
thought  that  we  are  considering.  Let  us  make 
the  experiment :  — 

My  savage  fathers  in  the  forest  depths 
Once  lurked  for  foes  and  hunted  for  their  game  ; 
And  in  the  forest  streams  they  caught  their  fish. 
Such  -was  their  life,  and  "  therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains." 


36  POETRY. 

But  I  fear  that,  if  an  adaptation  of  Sydney  Smith's 
joke  may  be  allowed,  we  shall  be  accused  of 
"making  game"  of  the  object  of  the  poet's  en- 
thusiasm. Let  us,  first  of  all,  be  sure  that  the 
theory  is  correct.  Let  us  do  what  Professor 
Tyndall  would  be  the  first  to  do  in  any  matter  of 
physical  science,  —  apply  the  "  method  of  differ- 
ence." The  circumstances  under  which  Professor 
Tyndall  refers  to  this  theory  furnish  a  most  ad- 
mirable opportunity  for  this  application.  The 
great  beauty  of  the  Alps  which  stirred  his  soul 
burst  upon  him  most  fully  when  he  stood  on 
heights  almost  inaccessible,  amid  ice  and  snow, 
where  even  the  scanty  mountain  herbage  did  not 
follow  him.  When  he  stood  surrounded  thus  by 
the  lonely  and  waste  sublimities  of  nature,  then 
it  was  that  his  soul  was  most  filled  with  the  glory 
of  the  scene.  This  experience  is  a  common  one. 
For  myself,  I  have  never  felt  the  beauty  of  the 
outward  world  more  than  in  the  region  of  Zer- 
matt,  in  Switzerland.  Upon  the  Corner  Grat 
one  stands  in  the  midst  of  snow  mountains  that 
are  gathered  as  if  in  a  mighty  conclave.  One 
shrinks,  as  if  one  were  intruding  unbidden  into 
the  council  chamber  of  these  monarchs  of  the 
earth.  On  one  side  they  press  near  to  the  spec- 


THE  IMAGINATION.  37 

tator  ;  on  the  other  they  stretch  far  away,  one 
rising  beyond  the  other.  From  each  mountain 
descends  a  glacier.  These,  uniting  in  the  valley, 
form  one  mighty  glacier  which  stretches  around 
the  foot  of  the  central  mountain  upon  which  we 
stand,  —  a  mountain  "which  seems  in  the  com- 
parison but  a  lowly  hill.  Thus  we  stand  in  the 
midst  of  the  solitudes  of  nature.  There  is  no 
life  anywhere,  only  the  magnificence  of  snow  and 
ice  and  rocky  precipices.  Or,  from  a  different 
point  of  view,  by  the  "  Black  Lake "  and  the 
Schmutzthal,  one  sees  some  of  the  same  moun- 
tains, —  Monte  Rosa  and  the  towering  sharpness 
of  the  Matterhorn.  If  before  we  felt  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  mighty  conclave,  we  see  now  the  same 
potentates,  only  each  seems  withdrawn  to  his 
own  estate,  and  lordlier  in  his  isolation  than 
when  gathered  with  his  peers  in  lofty  council. 

Now  no  theory  of  the  power  which  natural 
scenery  has  over  us  is  complete  that  does  not 
take  into  account  the  delight  that  we  experience 
in  spots  like  these.  The  theory  of  Spencer  that 
I  have  referred  to  does  not  do  this.  I  am  sure 
that  none  of  our  savage  ancestors  ever  found 
their  joy  among  wildernesses  of  ice  and  snow. 
Thus  no  associations  of  antiquity,  however  remote 


38  POETRY. 

and  dim,  could  be  stirring  in  our  heart.  Indeed, 
the  frozen  regions  of  the  North  have  sometimes 
been  considered,  as  by  the  ancient  Iranians,  to  be 
the  abode  of  the  powers  of  evil.  In  order  to 
settle  the  question  as  to  the  possibility  of  the 
spontaneous  origin  of  the  lowest  forms  of  life,  a 
vessel,  sealed  closely  so  that  no  germs  from  the 
outer  air  can  reach  the  liquid  with  which  it  is 
filled,  is  subjected  to  heat  so  intense  as  to  kill 
whatever  germs  may  be  already  existing  in  the 
liquid.  If,  after  this,  living  forms  are  found  in  it, 
the  inference  is  that  they  have  had  an  independ- 
ent or  spontaneous  origin.  With  the  results  of 
such  experiments,  and  the  accuracy  with  which 
they  have  been  performed,  we  have  here  nothing 
to  do;  but  it  .appears  to  me  that  in  the  case 
which  we  are  considering,  that  of  the  special  en- 
joyment of  beauty  among  the  glaciers  of  the 
high  Alps,  cold  performs  the  part  which  heat  was 
designed  to  perform  in  the  experiment  of  the 
germ-producing  liquid.  The  possibility  of  any 
historical  association  of  the  kind  that  the  theory 
demands  is  frozen  out. 

Other  natural  scenes  which  we  enjoy  most 
keenly  stand  in  a  similar  relation  to  the  history  of 
the  race.  The  spectacle  of  the  sea  in  a  storm  is 


THE  IMAGINATION,  39 

one  of  the  most  inspiring  that  nature  can  afford. 
Our  savage  ancestors  had  in  part  their  play  as 
well  as  their  work  in  the  waters  of  the  quiet  sea ; 
but  never  their  sport,  and  never  if  possible  their 
work,  on  the  sea  when  it  was  tossed  by  the  tem- 
pest. There  are  other  scenes  of  nature,  which 
we  recognize  as  beautiful,  to  which  our  savage 
ancestors  could  have  stood  in  no  different  rela- 
tions from  those  in  which  we  stand  to-day.  What 
ancestor  of  ours  ever  coasted  down  the  rainbow, 
or  played  hide-and-seek  among  the  stars  ? 

But  the  association,  even  where  it  may  exist,  is 
not  competent  to  account  for  the  result.  One 
whose  ancestors  have  lived  in  certain  regions,  or 
under  certain  circumstances,  may  feel  a  pleasure 
when  he  finds  himself  in  the  same  regions,  or 
under  similar  circumstances ;  but  this  does  not 
explain  the  exaltation,  the  inspiration,  the  spir- 
itual power,  of  the  beauties  and  sublimities  of 
nature.  Of  the  grandeur  of  the  mountain  scenery 
Professor  Tyndall  himself  exclaims  that  "  half 
the  interest  in  such  cases  is  psychological ;  the 
soul  takes  the  hint  of  surrounding  nature  and 
becomes  majestic."  Such  psychological  inspira- 
tion could  not  be  derived  from  any  inherited  as- 
sociation with  merely  animal  enjoyment.  If  it  is 


40  POETRY. 

inherited  at  all,  it  is  because  our  ancestors  were 
spiritual  as  well  as  animal,  because  their  hearts 
thrilled  at  the  vision  of  the  beautiful  as  ours  do. 
Indeed,  far  back  as  history  extends  we  find  this 
sense  of  the  beautiful,  of  the  grand,  of  the  inspir- 
ing. 

"  So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man," 

sings  the  poet,  and  the  race  can  take  up  and 
echo  back  the  song :  — 

"  So  was  it  when  my  life  began." 

The  Aryan  hymns  to  the  Dawn  show  a  sense  of 
beauty  as  keen  at  least  as  that  which  we  possess 
to-day.  The  mythologies,  the  religions,  of  the 
world,  have  sprung  largely  out  of  this  sense. 
Our  early  ancestors  felt  the  glory  of  the  heavens, 
the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  forest  depths. 
They  felt  this  strange,  inspiring,  awing,  and  up- 
lifting power  in  nature.  They  felt  it  and  they 
called  it  God.  The  early  Aryan  praise  of  the 
beauty  of  the  dawning  was  a  hymn. 

We  thus  reach  the  culmination  of  our  theme. 
We  have  seen  in  the  imagination-  simply  the  im- 
aging or  the  reflecting  power  of  the  mind ;  then 
we  have  seen  in  it  the  guide  and  the  inspiration 


THE  IMAGINATION.  41 

of  science  and  of  life;  then,  after  considering  its 
primacy  among  our  faculties  as  being  the  power 
which  bestows  upon  us  the  world  itself,  we  have 
followed  it  in  its  freer  and  more  normal  activity, 
and  seen  in  it  the  idealizing  faculty,  that  which 
evolves  out  of  nature  and  finds  in  nature  the 
ideal  element  which  is  its  reality.  .This  ideal  ele- 
ment manifests  itself  in  beauty;  and  now  we 
reach  the  point  where  it  manifests  itself  in  reli- 
gion. 

I  can  conceive  that  some,  who  have  followed 
with  sympathy  the  discussion  thus  far,  may  here 
become  repelled.  They  may  protest  against  that 
use  of  the  word  "imagination"  by  which  it  is  ap- 
plied to  the  discernment  of  the  Divine  Presence 
in  nature.  Here  is  no  image,  they  would  say. 
The  very  meaning  of  the  experience  is  the  being 
brought  face  to  face  with  that  which  is  invisible, 
with  that  which  reveals  itself  through  all  forms, 
but  which  itself  is  beyond  any  form.  They  would 
prefer  some  other  term.  They  would  speak,  per- 
haps, of  the  "  idealizing  power  of  the  mind  "  in- 
stead of  the  "  imagination."  So  far  as  the  literal 
signification  of  words  is  concerned,  the  substi- 
tution that  I  have  suggested  would  help  little. 
The  word  "idea  "  etymologically  means  something 


42  POETRY. 

that  is  seen.  It  implies  an  image  no  less  really 
than  the  word  which  it  would  supplant.  I  do  not 
care,  however,  to  rest  the  justification  of  my  use 
of  the  word  "  imagination  "  upon  any  such  ety- 
mological and  remote  consideration  as  that  which 
has  just  been  named.  It  is  in  part  because  the 
word  "idea"  has  to  so  large  an  extent  lost  its 
primitive  force,  and  has  acquired  a  purely  abstract 
meaning,  that  I  would  prefer  the  other.  There 
is  a  beholding  that  is  with  the  eyes  of  the  spirit 
alone.  There  is  an  imaging  that  involves  no 
limit  of  corporeal  form.  Such  a  beholding  is  the 
discernment  of  the  Divine  Presence  in  the  world ; 
such  an  imaging  is  the  gathering  up  out  of  the 
manifoldness  of  nature  the  scattered  manifesta- 
tions of  this  Presence,  and  blending  them  into  a 
sublime  oneness.  Chiefly,  however,  I  prefer  to 
use  in  this  connection  the  word  "  imagination," 
because  it  indicates  that  the  activity  which  it 
would  name  is  the  same  that  we  have  traced 
under  lower  forms.  The  power  that  constructs, 
out  of  the  elements  which  the  botanist  would 
separate,  the  ideal  unity  of  the  flower,  and  rejoices 
in  the  beauty  which  becomes  thus  manifest  to  it, 
is  akin  to  that  which  constructs  the  ideal  unity  of 
the  universe,  and  worships  the  divine  splendor 
which  shines  forth  from  this. 


THE  IMAGINATION.  43 

A  very  instructive  lesson  on  the  relation  be- 
tween the  imagination  and  religion  is  found  in 
the  life  of  Darwin.  Through  the  absorbing  in- 
terest which  his  scientific  investigations  had  for 
him,  we  are  told,  his  aesthetic  sense  and  his  reli- 
gious sense  became  weakened  together.  He  lost 
his  taste  for  poetry,  pictures,  and  music,  just  as 
he  lost  the  power  of  religious  faith  and  emotion. 
I  would  not  be  understood  as  implying  that  an 
aesthetic  taste  is  essential  if  religion  is  to  exist. 
Unhappy  would  it  be  for  the  world  if  this  were 
the  case.  In  a  complete  religion  there  exists, 
however,  a  relation  between  the  two.  The  aes- 
thetic taste  is  the  most  natural  and  ordinary  ex- 
pression of  the  imagination  ;  and  the  imagination, 
as  we  have  seen,  is  one  with  that  power  of  con- 
structive vision  by  which  man  finds  himself  face 
to  face  with  the  Divine  Presence  that  glorifies  the 
world.  In  the  case  of  Darwin,  had  the  religious 
sense  alone  been  dulled,  there  are  some  who 
would  have  seen  in  the  fact  an  evidence  of  the 
worthlessness  of  this  sense.  They  would  have 
seen  a  legitimate  triumph  of  science  over  what 
they  would  call  superstition.  There  are  few, 
however,  who  would  not  recognize  the  fact  that 
the,  dying  out  of  the  sense  of  beauty  from  any 


44  POETRY. 

life  is  a  real  loss.  There  are  few  who  do  not  re- 
alize that  the  enjoyment  of  beauty  is  one  of  the 
normal  functions  of  the  soul ;  and  that  it  cannot 
fail  without  disturbing  the  integrity  of  the  life. 
The  fact  that  it  and  the  sense  of  the  reality  of 
religion  together  faded  out  of  the  life  of  Darwin 
may  perhaps  help  some  to  realize  that  possibly ' 
the  latter  might  also  have  been  a  real  loss  ;  that 
the  capacity  for  religious  emotion  may  perhaps 
also  be  one  of  the  normal  elements  of  the  mind. 

In  our  thought  of  God  are  blended  the  loftiest 
ideals  of  the  soul.  We  find  hints  of  the  presence 
of  God  in  the  universe,  but  hints  only.  The  as- 
tronomer tells  us  that  he  has  swept  the  heavens 
with  his  telescope  and  found  no  God.  Only  "  the 
vision  and  the  faculty  divine  ; "  only  the  imagi- 
nation, which  is  the  eye  of  the  soul,  which  is  the 
culmination  and  representative  of  its  faculties,  — 
only  this  shows  us  God.  We  receive  Him  through 
the  imagination,  just  as  we  receive  the  outward 
world  through  the  imagination.  Religion  is 
poetry  believed  in,  just  as  the  outward  world  is 
poetry  believed  in ;  and  when  poetry  is  true,  it  is 
truer  than  anything  beside.  The  conception  of 
each  is  reached  in  the  same  way,  and  each  de- 
mands a  like  faith.  Thus  the  imagination,  first 


THE  IMAGINATION.  45 

the  explorer  and  then  the  poet  of  the  race,  be- 
comes at  last  its  seer,  its  prophet,  and  its  priest. 
The  senses  give  us  only  a  confused  series  of  sen- 
sations. The  understanding  gives  us  only  life- 
less fragments.  The  imagination  gives  us  the 
universe  in  its  wholeness,  and  transforms  it  into 
the  living  garments  of  Divinity. 

Here  our  investigation  must  reach  its  close. 
We  have  followed  it  far  enough,  however,  to  be 
sure  of  one  practical  result.  If  the  imagination 
is  thus  important,  a  complete  education  should 
give  a  prominent  place  to  studies  in  which  the 
imagination  shall  find  the  special  culture  and 
stimulus  that  it  needs  ;  and  for  this  a  mere  scien- 
tific training,  however  important  it  may  be,  is  not 
enough.  I  may  be  reminded,  indeed,  of  the  part 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  the  imagination  plays  in 
scientific  progress  ;  and  it  may  be  urged  that  thus 
science  alone  may  give  to  the  imagination  all  the 
scope  and  stimulus  which  it  requires.  But  it 
must  be  remembered  that  while  a  high  order  of 
imagination  is  needed  to  make  the  discoveries 
which  are  the  glory  of  science,  only  a  low  order 
of  imagination  is  absolutely  needed  to  accept 
them.  They  appear  to  their  discoverers  first  in 
the  form  of  poetry ;  but  after  they  have  been 


46  POETRY. 

announced  and  accepted,  they  enter  into  the  mass 
of  the  truisms  of  the  race,  and  are  learned  as 
prose.  Thus  the  point .  that  I  am  urging  may 
appear  more  obvious  and  important  than  before. 
For  if  the  imagination  fails  to  receive  the  devel- 
opment which  it  needs,  not  only  will  those  high 
truths  which  seem  more  directly  dependent  upon 
it  tend  to  become  dim  and  disappear,  but  sci- 
ence itself  will  lose  that  mighty  impulse  which 
has  been  the  moving  power  in  its  advance,  and 
its  grand  career  of  triumph  will  reach  its  end. 

In  the  examination  and  comparison  through 
which  we  have  passed,  I  may  seem  to  some  to 
have  spoken  slightingly  of  the  scientific  methods 
and  results  of  the  present  day.  I  must,  in  con- 
clusion, once  again  protest  against  any  such  in- 
terpretation of  my  words.  If  I  honor  anything  in 
the  present  age,  it  is  the  spirit  of  scientific  inves- 
tigation. I  accept  with  delight  its  revelations.  It 
is  only  when  it  claims  that  its  methods  and  its 
results  exhaust  the  universe  that  we  must  remind 
it  that  it  stands  on  borrowed  ground;  that  we 
must  point  out  its  limitations  ;  that  we  must  fall 
back  upon  the  soul,  —  the  soul  with  its  faith  and 
its  aspiration,  with  its  ideals,  with  its  creative 
power  which  is  akin  to  the  creative  power  of 
God. 


THE  IMAGINATION.  47 

We  must  remember  that  there  is  hardly  one 
among  the  truly  representative  men  of  modern 
science  who  does  not  recognize,  more  or  less  tim- 
idly or  confidently,  something  of  this  reality  which 
is  vaster  than  any  possible  reach  of  what  we  call 
science  ;  who  does  not  thus  recognize  something 
of  the  world  of  imagination.  Herbert  Spencer 
sees  the  knowable  as  wrapped  in  by  the  unknow- 
able, the  finite  by  the  absolute.  How  did  he 
reach  this  thought  ?  This  unknowable,  this  ab- 
solute, —  his  senses  have  not  discerned  it.  No 
reasoning  can  establish  it.  Only  the  imagina- 
tion has  revealed  it  to  him.  He  trusts  her  so 
far.  He  lets  her  construct  the  heavens  which 
shall  wrap  in  his  little  earth.  But  there  he  bids 
her  stay  her  hand.  No  color  shall  she  introduce 
into  these  outspread  heavens ;  no  delicate  noon- 
day blue,  no  glow  of  morning,  shall  she  paint 
there.  She  may  not  light  there  the  eternal  stars 
which  shall  illuminate  its  darkness.  If  she 
streak  this  darkened  heaven  with  any  hint  of  a 
coming  dawn,  it  is  done  against  his  protest,  and 
the  result  remains  because  unrecognized.  He 
trusts  her  for  the  greater ;  why  should  he  not 
trust  her  for  the  less  ? 

But  even  did  we  find  in  our  scientific  men  no 


48  POETRY. 

recognition  of  anything  beyond  the  results  of 
science  itself,  in  the  narrowest  acceptation  of  the 
word,  should  we  even  then  strive  to  check  its 
march  ?  Should  we  look  at  the  results  of  its 
analysis,  at  the  elements  which  it  gives  us  in  the 
place  of  the  living  universe,  and  cry  in  our  de- 
spair— 

• 

"  Woe  !  woe  !     Thou  hast  destroyed  it, 
The  beautiful  world  "  ? 

Nay,  rather  we  should  recognize  its  ministry  and 
accept  its  service.  The  imagination,  the  discern- 
ing and  creative  power  of  the  soul,  should  rouse 
itself  to  a  higher  work.  It  should  fill  out  these 
elements  with  its  own  life.  Mr.  Ruskin  would 
have  the  painter  know  nothing  of  anatomy.  The 
study  of  the  bones  of  the  arm,  he  believes,  will 
prevent  him  from  constructing  with  grace  the 
picture  of  the  arm.  But  suppose  the  knowledge 
of  the  anatomy  of  the  arm  to  be  so  familiar  as  to 
become  a  part  of  the  mind  itself,  and  the  imagi- 
nation so  powerful  that  it  can  use  this  knowledge 
without  being  hampered  by  it.  In  this  case  we 
should  have  both  accuracy  and  grace.  So  should 
the  imagination  master  the  results  of  science. 
If  it  does  this,  it  will  find  that  it  has  gained  in. 
finitely  through  that  which  it  most  dreaded. 


THE  IMAGINATION.  49 

The  child  draws  sweet  music  from  its  little 
pipe.  Then  comes  the  organ-builder,  with  his 
wilderness  of  material.  He  makes  a  vast  machine, 
and  calls  to  his  aid,  it  may  be,  the  power  of 
steam  to  move  the  ponderous  machinery.  And 
shall  this  machine,  we  cry,  take  the  place  of  the 
pipe  which  the  child  filled  with  its  breath  and 
modulated  with  its  fingers  ?  But  wait  till  the 
organist  takes  his  seat,  and  then  say  whether 
you  have  gained  or  lost  by  the  exchange.  So 
the  poet  asks  with  indignant  remonstrance.  "  In 
the  place  of  the  living  universe  will  science  give 
us  this  huge  machine  ? "  But  here  also  wait  for 
the  final  judgment  till  the  master-player  shall 
appear. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF   POETRY. 

WHILE  the  imagination,  as  we  have  seen,  makes 
its  power  felt  in  almost  every  sphere  of  life,  its 
most  distinctive  and  generally  recognized  mani- 
festation is  in  what  are  known  as  "the  fine  arts." 
Poetry,  if  not  the  greatest  of  these  arts,  is  in 
some  respects  the  most  interesting.  It  is  the 
most  important  of  those  arts  the  masterpieces  of 
which  any  one  of  us  can  always  have  at  hand. 
We  must  travel  far  to  meet  Raphael  and  Michael 
Angelo.  Homer  and  Shakespeare  come  to  us. 
Further,  there  is  no  other  art  that  has  at  its  com- 
mand such  varied  material.  This  being  so,  it  is 
a  little  singular  that  the  definitions  of  poetry  are 
for  the  most  part  so  unsatisfactory.  A  definition 
that  has  been  repeated  by  various  English 
authors  makes  poetry  to  be  "the  language  of 
passion  or  imagination  formed  into  regular  num- 
bers." This  definition  is  substantially  given  by 
Blair,  Hazlitt,  and  others.  It  is  obviously  no  defi- 
nition, for  it  lacks  unity.  It  gives  two  species 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  5  I 

with  no  genus  :  the  poetry  of  imagination  and 
that  of  passion,  with  nothing  to  unite  them  except 
the  metrical  form. 

Aristotle  almost  says  what  he  has  sometimes 
been  reported  as  saying,  that  all  poetry  is  imita- 
tion. On  the  other  hand,  Milton,  in  a  phrase 
often  quoted  of  late,  insists,  among  other  things, 
that  poetry  should  be  impassioned.  His  full 
statement  is  that  poetry  should  be  "  simple,  sen- 
suous, and  impassioned."  The  definition  is  a 
striking  one.  Elsewhere  I  may  refer  to  the  two 
specifications  that  are  first  named  in  it.  For  the 
present  I  wish  to  emphasize  merely  the  last. 

There  is  a  singular  contrast  between  this  defi- 
nition and  the  one  that  was  just  before  quoted  in 
connection  with  Aristotle.  The  one  would  make 
poetry  to  be  passion,  the  other  would  make  it  to 
be  imitation.  Imitation  implies  unreality  so  far 
as  the  definite  content  is  concerned.  Passion 
implies  the  most  intense  reality.  Here  we  have 
over  against  one  another  the  two  elements,  imag- 
ination and  passion,  that  were  brought  loosely 
together  in  the  first  definition  that  was  named. 

I  have  dwelt  on  the  two  definitions  last,  given 
because  I  accept  them  both.  It  will  be  in  part 
my  object  to  illustrate  and  reconcile  them. 


52  POETRY. 

Poetry  is  too  often  discussed  as  if  it  were  some- 
thing by  itself,  to  be  considered  apart  from  any- 
thing else.  Poetry  is  the  species  of  a  genus.  It 
is  a  branch  of  art.  It  is  distinguished  from  other 
branches  of  art  by  the  nature  of  its  material, 
which  is  language,  and  by  all  that  is  involved  in 
this.  Further,  art  itself  is  not  an  ultimate.  It  is 
one  of  the  forms  under  which  beauty  is  mani- 
fested. Before  asking  the  nature  of  poetry  we 
must  gather  from  the  nature  of  beauty  in  general, 
and  that  of  art  in  particular,  certain  principles 
which  we  may  apply  to  it.  I  must  then  ask  the 
patience  of  the  reader,  while  I  seem  to  turn  for  a 
while  from  our  proper  theme,  since  only  in  this 
way  can  we  obtain  any  true  basis  for  our  judg- 
ment of  it.  The  statement  of  these  general 
principles  will  indeed  occupy  the  larger  part  of 
this  discussion.  When  they  are  once  established, 
they  can  be  easily  and  briefly  applied. 

We  have  first  to  establish  certain  principles  in 
regard  to  beauty  in  general.  The  first  principle 
to  be  affirmed  in  regard  to  beauty  concerns  its 
content ;  that  is,  we  have  to  determine  the  na- 
ture of  the  material  that  is  included  in  the  gen- 
eral term  "beautiful." 

Every  form  of  being,  when  distinctly  presented 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  53 

to  us,  is  beautiful.  In  this  the  crudest  "realism" 
is  right.  As  we  ordinarily  stand  related  to  the 
world,  however,  few  forms  of  being  are  distinctly 
presented  to  us.  One  form  of  being  encroaches 
upon  another,  and  represses  or  distorts  it.  Thus 
realism  itself,  rightly  understood,  would  drive  us 
to  "idealism,"  in  the  true  meaning  of  the  word. 
Thus,  in  the  judgment  of  the  best  thinkers, 
beauty  is  found  in  the  manifestation  of  the  idea, 
in  the  Platonic  sense  of  the  term.  In  more  ordi- 
nary speech,  beauty  is  the  manifestation  of  the 
ideal  or  typical. 

This  may  be  illustrated  by  the  charm  of  music. 
In  music  we  have  the  ideal  sound.  Under  ordi- 
nary circumstances  the  sound  is  a  chance  product 
depending  on  the  relations  of  things  that  exist 
without  regard  to  it.  Under  these  circumstances 
sound  exists,  for  the  most  part,  simply  as  noise. 
In  the  case  of  music,  the  instruments  exist  for  the 
sake  of  the  sound,  and  conform  themselves  to  its 
laws.  Thus  in  music  we  have  tones  in  the  place 
of  noise.  The  tone  is  the  ideal  sound.  By  this 
I  mean  that  in  the  tone  the  undulations  from 
which  the  sound  springs  are  so  arranged  as  to 
produce  continuity  ;  or  if  we  have  several  series 
of  undulations  at  the  same  time,  they  are  so  ar- 


54  POETRY. 

ranged  as  to  blend  and  to  produce  a  single  effect, 
giving  us  a  unity  that  is  compound  and  organic. 
In  each  case  we  have  a  unity  of  result :  in  the 
one,  that  of  the  continuance  of  the  same  tone ;  in 
the  other,  that  of  combination,  which  also  has  a 
certain  continuance.  In  mere  noise  sound  is 
broken  up  into  disconnected  and  often  discordant 
elements.  Some  form  of  unity  is  needed  for  any 
impression  that  shall  be  really  characteristic  of 
its  cause,  and  thus  it  is  that  through  the  musical 
tone  one  is  brought  into  relation  with  sound  it- 
self, as  one  is  not  through  a  noise,  let  it  be  ever 
so  deafening.  What  is  here  said  refers,  of  course, 
only  to  the  satisfaction  that  comes  from  the  mar 
terial  element  of  music  ;  and  not  at  all  to  the 
other  ideals  that  may  be  expressed  through  it. 

From  this  example  we  can  understand  the 
meaning  of  a  characteristic  of  beauty  that  is  often 
insisted  upon  ;  namely,  that  it  requires  unity  in 
variety.  It  is  not  that  the  mere  perception  of 
unity  in  variety  gives  a  sense  of  beauty.  It  is 
that  without  variety  there  can  be  no  material  to 
affect  us  ;  and  unless  the  elements  are  concen- 
trated in  such  a  way  that  a  single  effect  is  pro- 
duced, we  can  get  no  characteristic  impression 
from  them.  A  loadstone  is  powerless  till  you 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  55 

have  found  its  poles  ;  and  there  could  be  no  poles 
without  mass.  Such  is  the  nature  of  the  unity  in 
variety  which  is  required  for  any  form  of  beauty. 
In  the  world  of  organic  life,  also,  the  beautiful 
is  that  which  is  typical.  This  statement  does  not 
refer  to  that  form  of  life  which  is  most  typical  of 
the  species  to  which  it  may  belong.  It  must  not 
be  understood  that  the  typical  frog,  or  the  typical 
hippopotamus,  must,  according  to  this  view,  be 
beautiful.  The  type  which  is  beautiful  is  not 
that  of  the  species  or  the  genus,  but  of  that  form 
of  being  which  these  represent.  That  living 
thing  is  most  beautiful  which  best  manifests  life ; 
while  that  in  which  the  presence  of  life  is  most 
obscured  will  be  the  opposite  of  beautiful.  "  So 
we  exterminate  the  deer,"  exclaims  Thoreau, 
"  and  substitute  the  hog."  The  hog  is  here  con- 
trasted with  the  deer,  as  the  prosaic  with  the 
beautiful ;  and  the  two  may  serve  to  illustrate  the 
point  which  we  are  considering.  The  wild  boar, 
indeed,  long,  lank,  and  terrible  in  its  fierceness, 
has  a  certain  picturesqueness,  at  least,  in  its 
native  wilds ;  but  from  the  fatted  hog  this  pictur- 
esqueness has  departed.  The  hog,  we  say,  is 
gross  looking.  By  this  we  mean  that  in  it  life 
seems  lost  in  matter.  It  seems  less  like  a  living 


56  POETRY. 

organism  than  it  does  like  a  piece  of  awkward 
carpentry.  It  is  such  a  shape  as  a  boy  might 
whittle  out  with  his  jackknife.  Its  cylindrical 
body  is  without  longitudinal  curves.  At  one  ex- 
tremity it  falls  off  in  a  clumsy  approach  to  some- 
thing like  a  point.  To  the  other  is  abruptly  at- 
tached a  slight  curl.  Whatever  vital  expression 
might  come  to  it  from  eyes  and  mouth  is  lost  in 
the  puffed  and  swollen  aspect  that  constitutes  its 
whole  face.  Its  expression  is  not  animal,  it  is 
worse.  It  is  that  of  gluttony  and  weak  sensual- 
ism. When  we  say  this  we  must  remember  that 
the  sensualism  which  the  expression  of  the  fat- 
ted hog  suggests  is  not  that  of  its  gluttony  but 
of  ours.  The  deer,  on  the  other  hand,  displays 
the  presence  of  life  at  every  point.  All  the 
members  of  the  organism  flow  together  in  grace- 
ful curves.  There  is  nothing  mechanical ;  there 
is  no  carpenter's  work.  There  is  simply  the 
presence  of  life  which  has  created  and  which 
animates  the  whole. 

We  thus  see  one  of  the  aspects  of  the  human 
form  which  makes  it,  when  graceful  and  beautiful, 
more  perfect  than  any  other.  The  quadruped  in 
standing  depends  largely  on  mechanical  support 
The  horse  can  sleep  on  his  feet  almost  as  well  as 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  57 

if  lying  down.  With  man  this  is  different.  He 
stands  by  vital  power  more  than  by  mechanical. 
The  muscles  of  all  parts  of  the  body  contribute 
to  the  preservation  of  his  poise. 

Even  animals  that  commonly  are  ungainly 
sometimes  surprise  us  with  their  grace.  The 
kangaroo  had  always  seemed  to  me  awkward  and 
ill-proportioned ;  but  once  I  saw  one  startled  into 
a  beauty  equal  to  that  of  the  stag.  The  body  as- 
sumed a  graceful  poise ;  the  ears  and  the  delicate 
head  were  animated  and  intent.  Commodore 
Porter  relates  a  scene  in  which  Lincoln,  if  I  may 
name  him  in  this  connection,  was  animated  by  an 
unwonted  passion,  and  he  describes  him  as  be- 
coming positively  handsome.  In  such  cases  it  is 
a  fresh  influx  of  life  that  takes  possession  of  the 
organism  and  manifests  itself  in  every  part. 

More  important,  however,  than  the  life  of  the 
individual  is  the  life  of  the  whole.  Nature  forms 
the  background  of  all  special  existences,  and 
is  present  in  them  as  well  as  about  them.  The 
forces  of  nature,  when  they  are  really  displayed, 
always  give  us  the  sense  of  beauty.  It  is  obvious 
that  we  may  sometimes  have  in  this  way  a  colli- 
sion between  the  different  kinds  of  beauty.  The 
forces  of  nature  must  display  themselves  by  their 


58  POETRY. 

effects.  The  action  of  wind  and  wave  may  be 
exhibited  by  the  repression  of  organic  complete- 
ness! Thus  imperfection  may  often  be  more 
beautiful  than  perfection.  The  beauty  of  nature 
may  be  marred  by  any  object  that  seems  to  stand 
out  too  conspicuously  and  inharmoniously  over 
against  it.  We  see,  thus,  that  the  assertion  so 
often  made,  that  beauty  consists  in  perfection, 
however  true  when  rightly  understood,  is  subject 
to  many  qualifications.  A  ruin  may  seem  more 
beautiful  than  the  perfect  structure  ever  did. 
The  ruin  has  become  a  part  of  the  natural  world. 
The  building  no  longer  stands  out  in  its  self-as- 
sertion against  the  face  of  nature.  Its  conceit  is 
gone.  Thus  an  abbey  in  ruins,  when  enough 
remains  of  pillar  and  arch  to  suggest  the  grace  of 
man's  handiwork,  is  more  beautiful  than  it  was  in 
its  fresh  completeness.  We  no  longer  see  it,  we 
see  nature  in  it.  We  can  thus  understand  how 
rudeness  may  have  a  charm  to  which  finished 
grace  cannot  attain.  The  skilfully  modelled 
clipper  seems  designed  to  rule  the  waves.  It 
seems  something  over  against  them,  a  foreign 
body  that  has  come  to  dominate  them.  A  clumsy 
Dutch  vessel,  which  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  sailor  is  little  better  than  a  tub,  may  be  more 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  59 

picturesque  than  the  clipper  with  all  its  delicacy 
of  curve  and  sharpness  of  prow.  So  too  an  ani- 
mal that  is  awkward  or  horrible  when  seen  b} 
itself,  may  help  to  make  a  scene  of  beauty  when 
beheld  in  his  natural  environment,  in  which  all 
the  elements  are  in  harmony,  as  a  serpent  hang- 
ing from  a  tree  in  a  tropical  forest. 

Above  the  beauty  of  sound  and  color  and  form 
is  the  beauty  of  spirit.  In  the  spiritual  world  a 
wholly  new  realm  is  open  to  us,  which  repeats, 
only  on  a  higher  plane,  the  relations  which 
moved  our  hearts  in  the  world  of  nature  and  of 
life.  Here  also  there  are  storms  and  calms  ;  here 
also  there  are  grace  and  strength.  There  is  the 
world  of  the  emotions  and  the  passions.  There 
are  love  and  joy,  and  sorrow  and  fear. 

Above  the  world  of  the  passions  there  is  the 
world  of  thought.  This  is  not  in  itself  beautiful. 
It  is  the  result  of  abstraction  from  all  the  lower 
forms  of  existence.  If  it  is  to  be  an  object  of 
beauty,  it  must  become  embodied  in  such  a  way 
that  it  shall  appear  in  living  presence  before  us. 
We  have  here  the  world  of  ideas,  in  the  every- 
day meaning  of  that  term.  These  ideas  must  be 
in  some  sort  transformed  into  ideals  in  order  to 
enter  the  world  of  beauty.  They  must,  to  use 
the  word  of  Milton,  become  sensuous. 


6O  POETRY. 

We  have  thus  indicated  the  elements  through 
which  beauty  may  be  manifested.  We  find  they 
include  all  the  realms  of  nature,  life,  or  spirit. 
We  have,  at  the  same  time,  a  test  by  which  we 
may  distinguish,  at  least  in  part,  what  is  not 
beautiful  from  that  which  is.  That  is  not  beauti- 
ful in  which  the  form  of  existence,  that  is  the 
object  of  contemplation,  is  in  any  way  repressed 
or  degraded.  If  life  is  the  thing  that  is  mani- 
fested, the  life  must  be  free  and  whole.  In  the 
world  of  spirit  there  must  be  neither  brutality 
nor  weakness.  Such  imperfections,  if  they  are 
present,  must  tend  to  the  exaltation  and  the  in- 
tensifying of  that  which  is  perfect,  according  to 
some  other  type  ;  or  by  contrast  and  occasion  in 
some  other  aspect  of  the  type  to  which  they  be- 
long. 

We  have  thus  a  theory  of  beauty  which  lends 
itself  to  all  the  varied  forms  of  existence  that  fill 
the  universe,  and  to  the  universe  itself,  could  we 
rise  to  the  contemplation  of  it.  The  theory  is  as 
delicate  and  universal  in  its  application  as  beauty 
itself.  Indeed  it  is  less  a  theory  of  beauty  than  a 
statement  of  the  conditions  on  which,  as  experi- 
ence teaches  us,  beauty  depends. 

If  we  look  beyond  these  to  some  inner  relation- 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  6 1 

ship  between  the  external  world  and  ourselves, 
through  which  the  joy  of  beauty  comes  to  us 
under  these  circumstances,  we  should  say  that  we 
are  so  one  with  the  world  about  us  that  we  have 
a  sense  of  freedom  in  its  freedom  and  of  life  in  its 
life.1 

The  second  statement  that  we  have  to  make  in 
regard  to  beauty  naturally  results  from  the  first. 
It  concerns  its  form,  as  that  its  content.  If 
beauty  is  the  manifestation  of  the  ideal,  then  it  is 
for  contemplation  alone.  This  also  is  a  matter 
in  regard  to  which  the  best  scholars  agree.  If 
beauty  is  a  matter  of  contemplation  only,  then  all 
other  ends  and  uses  are  excluded  from  it,  and 

"  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 

Beauty  is  thus  an  end  in  itself,  and  has  some- 
thing of  the  perfection  of  the  completed  universe. 
So  far  as  an  object  is  considered  simply  as  an  in- 
strument, so  far  it  ceases  to  be  regarded  as  beau- 
tiful ;  except,  indeed,  in  cases  where  it  may  be 
regarded  as  an  element  in  some  more  comprehen- 
sive beauty  to  which  it  contributes.  The  steam- 
engine  as  it  rushes  along  its  narrow  path  may 

1 1  should  consider  this  aspect  of  the  theme  at  greater  length,  if 
I  had  not  presented  it  more  fully  in  my  Science  of  Thought, 
under  the  heading,  "  Propositions  in  regard  to  Beauty." 


62  POETRY. 

sometimes  seem  to  us,  in  its  strength  and  its  swift- 
ness an  object  of  beauty ;  but  when  this  is  so  we 
see  it  in  itself,  as  the  embodiment  of  a  mighty 
force.  We  do  not  regard  it  as  a  useful  machine. 
We  thus  find  in  beauty  a  certain  unsubstantial- 
ity.  What  we  recognize  as  characterizing  most 
especially  the  material  world  is  the  relationship  of 
action  and  reaction  by  which  all  things  are  bound 
together.  We  see  working  from  behind  the  prin- 
ciple of  efficient  causation.  On  the  other  side 
we  recognize  that  of  the  final  cause.  The  first 
relation,  that  of  efficient  causality,  gives  us  the 
world  of  physical  science  ;  the  other,  that  of  the 
end  or  purpose,  gives  us  the  world  of  life,  or  from 
a  higher  point  of  view  the  world  of  philosophy 
and  of  theology.  Beauty,  as  such,  is  taken  out 
from  all  these  relationships.  Hence  that  unsub- 
stantial aspect  of  it  which  was  just  named.  We 
might  picture  it,  though  not  with  perfect  accuracy, 
as  hovering  over  the  world  like  a  certain  divine 
image  or  effluence.  Thus  Emerson  apostrophizes 
it:  — 

"  Thee  gliding  through  the  sea  of  form 
Like  the  lightning  through  the  storm, 
Somewhat  not  to  be  possessed, 
Somewhat  not  to  be  qaressed, 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  63 

No  feet  so  fleet  could  ever  find, 
No  perfect  form  could  ever  bind. 
Thou  eternal  fugitive, 
Hovering  over  all  that  live." 

After  having  thus  considered  beauty  in  gen- 
eral, we  have  to  consider  art  as  a  special  form  of 
beauty.  In  entering  upon  this  discussion  we 
must  first  distinguish  between  the  forms  of  art 
that  are  representative  and  those  that  are  sim- 
ply presentative.  Among  the  former  the  arts  of 
painting  and  sculpture  are  the  most  prominent ; 
among  the  latter  we  may  reckon  architecture  and 
music.  Architecture  is  representative  only  in 
certain  details.  Music  very  rarely  becomes  rep- 
resentative or  imitative. 

The  creations  of  painting  and  sculpture  stand 
over  against  the  world  of  nature  which  they  with 
greater  or  less  accuracy  represent.  The  produc- 
tions of  music  and  architecture  take  their  place 
among  the  works  of  nature.  The  former  imply 
thus  a  certain  duality,  the  image  standing  apart 
from  the  reality.  The  latter  possess  a  simpli- 
city like  that  of  the  music  of  the  winds  and  the 
magnificence  of  the  mountains.  It  is  of  represen- 
tative art  alone  that  we  have  here  to  speak. 

In  the  whole  discussion,  it  is  perhaps  needless 


64  POETRY. 

to  say  we  must  distinguish  between  the  work  of 
art  as  a  thing  that  has  a  market  value,  which  thus 
can  be  coveted  and  which  may  stir  the  pride  of 
possession,  and  the  work  of  art  as  such  in  its 
representative  character.  In  the  first  aspect  it  is 
a  thing  like  other  things,  and  one  may  stand  to  it 
in  a  personal  or  private  relation.  This  is,  how- 
ever, obviously  not  its  nature  so  far  as  its  artistic 
character  is  concerned ;  so  far,  that  is,  as  it  is 
representative.  In  its  primary  relation  to  the 
spectator,  the  work  of  art  and  the  spectator  him- 
self stand  face  to  face  in  the  pure  world  of  con- 
templation ;  the  world  from  which  all  selfish  con- 
siderations and  impulses  are  removed. 

We  must  notice,  also,  that  representative  art 
has  certain  subordinate  and  accidental  functions 
which  must  be  left  out  of  the  account  in  any  ab- 
solute estimate.  I  refer  to  them  simply  because 
some  would  find  in  them  the  distinctive  nature  of 
art  as  contrasted  with  nature.  By  one  class  of 
these  subordinate  functions  art  works  in  the  line 
of  nature,  accomplishing  results  of  the  same 
kind  that  we  find  in  nature,  only  accomplishing 
these  more  perfectly.  Thus,  as  we  have  seen, 
beauty  demands  a  certain  unity  and  isolation. 
The  beautiful  object  must  seem  to  be  in  a  man- 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  65 

ner  complete  in  itself.  In  nature  this  result  is 
not  always  or  easily  reached.  In  the  landscape, 
for  instance,  the  various  parts  or  elements  are 
confusedly  connected  together,  and  the  groupings 
run  into  one  another.  The  art  of  the  painter  can 
isolate  a  single  group  and  present  it  by  itself. 
It  can  do  more  than  this.  It  can  bring  together 
elements  that  in  nature  are  most  often  scattered, 
and  arrange  them  with  reference  to  picturesque 
effect.  Thus  art  can  in  many  cases  create  a 
perfection  which  is  rarely  found  in  nature.  The 
painter  may  select  that  which  is  most  beautiful 
in  different  forms,  and  unite  them  in  a  single 
ideal  form.  The  creation  of  the  sculptor  stands 
unmarred  by  the  imperfections  which  are  rarely 
absent  in  actual  life.  All  of  these  facts  do  not, 
however,  mark  out  a  distinct  realm  for  art.  The 
results  which  have  been  described  are  sometimes 
reached  by  nature  itself.  There  are  landscapes 
that  round  themselves  into  a  beautiful  complete- 
ness which  the  artist  might  copy,  but  which  he 
could  not  hope  to  surpass.  There  are  human 
forms  which  demand  no  composition  or  replace- 
ment by  elements  from  other  forms,  which  them- 
selves may  stand  to  the  artist  as  his  single  and 
perfect  model.  If  the  functions  that  we  have 


66  POETRY. 

considered  were  the  only  offices  of  art,  art  would 
be,  in  a  certain  sense,  the  handmaid  of  nature, 
completing  that  which  nature  had  left  imperfect 
and  perpetuating  that  which  nature  had  happily 
accomplished.  All  this,  however,  does  not  ex- 
plain the  special  charm  which  a  pictured  land- 
scape, for  instance,  has  as  compared  with  a  real 
landscape.  I  do  not  mean  that  the  charm  of  the 
picture  is  greater  than  that  of  the  real  landscape. 
It  may  be  less  ;  I  merely  state  the  commonplace 
fact  that  it  is  different. 

Another  subordinate  element  of  power  that  is 
possessed  by  the  artistic  representation  is  that  it 
enables  us  to  see  as  if  with  the  eyes  of  the  artist, 
so  that  the  scene  has  something  of  the  glamour 
for  us  that  it  had  for  him.  This  is  an  element 
that  must  not  be  spoken  lightly  of.  It  is  a  charm 
of  which  we  have  all  felt  the  power.  Even  the 
most  poetic  and  sensitive  of  artists  derives,  how- 
ever, from  the  painting  a  pleasure  different  from 
that  which  the  landscape  itself  gives.  The  power 
that  comes  from  the  artist's  personality  is  then, 
in  a  sense,  accidental.  It  does  not  concern  the 
nature  of  the  painting  as  such. 

It  is  still  less  an  explanation  of  our  enjoyment 
of  the  painting  to  ascribe  it  to  our  admiration  of 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  67 

the  skill  of  the  artist.  This  would  be  to  degrade 
art  to  the  level  of  any  work  of  mere  sleight  of 
hand.  The  recognition  of  artistic  skill  may  in- 
deed form  a  subordinate  element  of  our  enjoy- 
ment of  any  work  of  genius  ;  but  this  position  of 
subordination  must  be  always  kept.  So  soon  as 
technical  skill  impresses  us  more  than  the  real 
beauty  of  any  artistic  creation,  the  legitimate 
effect  of  this,  as  an  object  of  beauty,  is  to  a  very 
large  extent,  if  not  wholly,  lost. 

We  return  again,  therefore,  to  the  question  as 
to  the  nature  of  the  special  charm  which  a  work 
of  representative  art  has  for  us.  Since  this 
charm  must  spring  from  the  peculiar  nature  of 
the  work  it  is  obvious  that  its  source  must  be 
found  in  its  representative  character.  The  work 
has  its  peculiar  fascination  because  it  is  a  repre- 
sentation and  not  a  reality.  A  little  thought  will 
show  the  reasonableness  of  this  position.  We 
have  seen  that  beauty  as  such  is  purely  an  affair 
of  contemplation.  We  have  seen  that  the  beauti- 
ful object  is  thus  taken  out  from  the  great  suc- 
cession of  causation,  efficient  and  final.  So  far 
as  the  spectator  enjoys  beauty  purely  as  such,  so 
far  is  he  taken  out  from  the  realm  of  strife,  long- 
ing, and  regret.  He  stands  as  a  mere  beholder 


68  POETRY. 

absorbed  in  the  joy  of  contemplation.  Now, 
that  which  in  the  world  of  realities  is  accom- 
plished by  the  power  of  beauty  on  the  one  side, 
and  the  power  of  abstraction  on  the  other,  is,  in 
the  forms  of  art  which  we  are  considering, 
accomplished  by  the  artist.  The  form  is  sepa- 
rated from  the  substance.  That  ethereal  beauty 
which  seemed  to  float  about  the  reality  like  a 
halo  is  taken  by  itself  and  placed  before  the  eyes 
of  the  beholder.  He  sees  the  beauty,  and  he 
sees  that  this  is  all.  There  is  no  sense  of  per- 
sonal relationship.  There  is  no  place  for  fear,  or 
hope,  or  longing,  in  regard  to  the  matters  which 
are  thus  presented  to  him.  Thus  the  perception 
of  beauty  as  such,  apart  from  all  personal  con- 
siderations, is  made  easy,  and,  if  the  spectator 
have  any  sense  of  beauty,  is  made  inevitable. 

An  illustration  of  this  is  found  in  the  fact  that 
on  going  out  of  a  picture-gallery  the  world  about 
us  seems  for  a  few  moments  to  have  lost  its  real- 
ity. The  distant  landscape,  the  scenes  on  the 
street,  the  interiors  of  which  we  may  catch 
glimpses,  all  put  themselves  into  the  picturesque 
attitude  ;  we  spontaneously  strip  off  the  seeming 
from  the  fact,  and,  accepting  this  alone,  move  in 
a  world  of  appearances  merely. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  69 

It  may  be  urged,  indeed,  that  this,  also,  is  no 
ultimate  distinction.  The  artist  and  the  poet, 
all  who  have  the  sense  of  beauty,  spontaneously 
assume  in  the  presence  of  the  beauty  of  nature 
the  attitude  of  pure  contemplation,  and  thus  do 
not  need  the  help  of  art  in  order  to  accomplish 
this.  This  is  certainly  true.  The  difference  is, 
however,  that  while  in  the  enjoyment  of  natural 
beauty  we  may  for  a  moment  lose  the  sense  of 
reality,  in  the  presence  of  art  we  have  the  sense 
of  unreality.  That  ethereal  element  which  we 
have  found  to  be  one  of  the  properties  of  beauty 
is  thus  forced  upon  us  as  it  cannot  be  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  real  objects  of  nature. 

From  these  general  considerations  we  can  un- 
derstand, in  part,  the  complemental  character  of 
painting  and  sculpture.  Each  gives  only  a  single 
aspect  of  the  object  represented,  thus  making 
obvious  and  unmistakable  the  shadowy  and  un- 
real character  of  the  presentation.  Sculpture 
gives  us  the  solidity  of  form  without  color. 
Painting  gives  us  color  without  the  solidity  of 
form.  There  is  no  possibility  of  mistaking  rep- 
resentation for  substitution.  That  is  a  cheap 
triumph  of  painting  that  arises  from  a  mistaking 
the  picture  for  a  reality.  It  is  the  painting  con- 


70  POETRY. 

sidered  as  painting  which  gives  us  the  special 
pleasure  which  we  derive  from  it.  What  is  true 
of  painting  and  sculpture  is  true,  in  one  sense  or 
another,  of  all  the  representative  arts.  Their 
function  is  fulfilled  by  means  of  their  openly 
recognized  representative  character.  Thus  the 
drama  or  the  novel  differs  from  history.  We 
may,  indeed,  study  the  course  of  history  as  if  it 
were  a  drama  or  a  novel ;  but  so  far  as  we  do  this 
it  has  ceased  to  be  regarded  by  us  as  history. 
I  sat  once  behind  two  young  girls  in  the  theatre 
where  Ristori  represented  the  sorrows  of  Marie 
Antoinette.  They  gave  themselves  up  to  tears 
of  sympathy.  Then  one  would  remark,  "  It  is 
not  real ;  it  is  only  a  play,"  and  they  would  lis- 
ten for  a  moment  in  composure.  Then  the  other 
would  exclaim,  "  But  it  is  all  true,  though  ;  it  all 
happened ! "  and  then  they  would  surrender 
themselves  anew  to  their  sorrow.  It  was  the 
struggle  between  the  sense  of  art  and  that  of 
reality,  even  under  the  circumstances  where  the 
art  was  unmistakable.  But  even  in  such  an  af- 
fecting drama  as  this  we  see  something  of  the 
triumph  of  art  No  one  of  us  could  bear  to  look 
upon  the  real  sorrows  of  the  unhappy  queen. 
The  spectacle  of  the  drama  moves  us,  but  not  to 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  71 

the  depths  of  our  heart.  The  illusion  is  never 
so  strong  that  we  quite  forget  that  it  is  an  illu- 
sion. If  we  should  for  a  moment  really  forget 
that  what  we  see  is  an  illusion,  we  should  not 
sit  as  quiet  spectators  of  plots  or  crime.  The 
rustic  at  the  theatre  sometimes  cries  out,  to  give 
warning  of  some  premeditated  villainy.  Don 
Quixote  at  the  puppet-show  forgot  that  what  he 
saw  was  an  illusion,  and  he  struck  in  with  his 
good  sword  to  defend  the  innocent.  Such  Don 
Quixotes  should  we  all  become,  I  trust,  if  the 
mimic  scene  should  for  a  moment  be  accepted  by 
us  as  real. 

In  this  recognition  of  the  representative  char- 
acter of  art  is  found  the  source  of  at  least  a  part 
of  the  pleasure  which  we  derive  from  it.  Even 
our  sorrow  is  not  real  sorrow.  We  are  playing 
at  grief,  as  the  actor  is  playing  upon  the  stage. 
Doubtless  our  pleasure  is,  in  part,  found  in  the 
fact  that  we  can  make  a  playmate  of  that  terrible 
force  of  suffering  from  which  at  other  times  we 
shrink.  .  Now  its  fierceness  is  for  the  moment 
gone.  It  is  like  a  wild  beast  tamed  whom  we 
only  play  that  we  fear. 

It  is  this  representative  character  which  makes 
possible  to  art  the  realism  that  embraces  much 


72  POETRY. 

which  would  otherwise  be  excluded  from  its 
domain.  The  beauty  of  the  human  form  stands 
before  us  in  the  chaste  coldness  of  the  marble  ; 
and  scenes  of  struggle  and  suffering  that  would 
in  themselves  cause  us  only  anguish  may  serve 
to  awaken  a  lofty  gladness,  as  we  see  imaged  be- 
fore us  the  triumph  of  the  spirit  which  finds  in 
struggle  and  suffering  only  the  occasion  of  a 
mighty  heroism. 

We  have  before  seen  that  one  source  of  our 
enjoyment  of  the  beauty  of  nature  is  found  in  the 
fact  that  through  it  is  manifested  the  presence  of 
the  universal  life.  The  art  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking  is  to  a  great  extent  dead.  We  have  the 
lifeless  marble  and  canvas.  We  have  here  some- 
thing quite  unlike  that  life  which  reveals  itself 
in  plant  and  animal  and  man,  and  in  the  wide 
expanse  of  nature.  If  art  is  representative,  it 
should  represent  this  also.  This  absolute  life, 
it  is  obvious,  admits  of  no  imitation.  All  that 
art  can  do  in  the  matter  is  to  avoid  the  semblance 
of  death.  This  is  accomplished  in  the  arts  of 
sculpture  and  painting  by  that  complemental 
relation  of  which  I  have  just  spoken.  Each  of 
these  gives  us  only  the  half  of  the  reality.  The 
statue  is  wholly  undetermined  in  the  direction  of 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  73 

color.  The  painting  is  wholly  unreal  so  far  as 
the  solidity  of  form  is  concerned.  Each  is  thus, 
in  a  sense,  open  to  the  infinite.  We  have  not 
the  presence  of  life,  but  we  do  have  the  absence 
of  any  sense  of  lifelessness.  The  bit  of  colored 
wax-work,  which  for  a  moment  may  deceive  us 
as  if  by  the  presence  of  life,  gives  us,  after  the 
first  glance,  the  sense  of  lifelessness.  It  gives 
us  the  sense  of  oppression,  or  else  it  seems  to  us 
a  mere  toy.  The  grandeur  of  real  art  comes 
from  that  incompleteness  which  we  have  just 
considered. 

It  is  a  very  superficial  view  that  would  explain 
the  pleasure  which  we  derive  from  the  incom- 
pleteness of  painting  and  sculpture  by  the  as- 
sumption that  thereby  the  imagination  of  the 
beholder  is  stimulated  to  complete  the  work,  to 
round  out  the  picture,  and  to  color  the  marble. 
This  seems  to  me  wholly  wrong.  Who  colors 
the  marble  of  the  statue  in  his  thought  ?  This 
would  be  to  make  it  imitate  the  lifeless  wax-work  ; 
or  it  would  be  to  substitute  for  it  the  living  form, 
and  thus  to  insult  its  sublime  chastity.  The 
whiteness  of  the  marble,  I  repeat,  produces  two 
effects.  It  removes  at  once  the  appearance  of 


74  POETRY. 

life  and  that  of  lifelessness.  It  introduces  us 
into  a  world  with  which  life  and  lifelessness  have 
nothing  to  do,  —  the  world  of  form.  What  is 
true  of  the  statue  is  true,  with  the  needful  quali- 
fications, of  the  painting. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF   POETRY  (continued). 

WE  have  thus  reached  certain  principles  that 
we  must  now  apply  to  poetry,  which  is  our 
special  theme.  We  have  found  that  beauty  is, 
as  to  its  content,  the  ideal ;  as  to  its  form,  it  is  a 
matter  of  contemplation  only.  Of  representative 
art,  we  have  found  that  its  special  charm  lies 
in  its  representative  character.  The  principles 
which  pertain  to  beauty  in  general  we  can  apply 
to  our  study  of  poetry  without  hesitation,  for 
they  imply  no  division  in  the  realm  of  beauty. 
So  far  as  poetry  is  considered  as  a  branch  of  art, 
the  case  is  different.  There  are,  as  we  have 
seen,  two  sorts  of  art, — the  representative  and 
the  presentative.  We  have  yet  to  decide  whether 
poetry  belongs  with  painting  and  sculpture,  among 
the  representative  arts,  or  with  music  and  archi- 
tecture, among  the  simple,  non-representative 
arts. 

As  painting  is  the  art  that  uses  color,  as  sculp- 
ture is  that  which  uses  marble  or  some  other 


76  POETRY. 

solid  material,  and  music  that  which  uses  sound, 
so  poetry  is  the  art  that  uses  words.  As  all  art 
must  be  beautiful  from  without  inwards,  or  from 
below  upwards,  that  is,  as  each  artistic  work  must 
be  beautiful  even  to  the  most  superficial  and 
uncomprehending  glance,  and  must  gain  new 
beauty  as  we  reach  more  and  more  to  its  inmost 
heart,  —  the  painting,  for  instance,  being  beauti- 
ful as  color,  and  yet  more  beautiful  in  that  which 
the  color  represents,  —  so  poetry  must  please 
even  the  ear  that  does  not  comprehend  its  real 
significance.  The  sounds  must  form  of  them- 
selves, to  a  certain  extent,  a  musical  succession. 
The  ear  must  be  charmed  also  by  the  regular 
cadence  of  the  rhythm,  and,  it  may  be,  pleased 
with  the  recurrence  of  the  resembling  sounds 
that  mark  the  rhyme. 

Besides  this  pleasure  which  the  ear  derives 
from  rhyme  and  rhythm,  the  nature  of  which 
pleasure  I  will  not  here  further  discuss,  these 
characteristics  of  poetry  add  still  further  to  its 
charm.  In  the  first  place,  they  aid  in  construct- 
ing that  unity  which  every  object  of  beauty 
needs.  Each  line  and  each  stanza  is  by  its  com- 
pleted measure  formed  into  a  whole ;  and  these 
separate  wholes,  united,  form  the  grand  whole, 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  77 

which  is  the  poem.  The  poem  is  thus  shut  off 
from  all  entanglement  with  the  activities  and 
utilities  of  life.  It  stands  as  a  simple  and  single 
object  of  contemplation. 

One  very  important  result  of  the  unity  thus 
reached  is  found  in  the  fact  that  each  part  con- 
tains in  itself  a  power  that  comes  from  the  whole. 
The  whole  is,  in  a  sense,  present  in  every  part. 
We  know  how  the  movement  of  some  vast  and 
orderly  proeession  expresses  the  feeling  of  joy  or 
sorrow  more  than  a  moving,  unorganized  mass 
of  people.  Especially  is  this  the  case  when  the 
music,  to  the  rhythm  of  which  all  move,  seems 
to  utter  the  emotion  common  to  all.  "Every  in- 
dividual seems  to  represent  the  whole.  So  the 
organizing  power  that  manifests  itself  in  the 
poem  seems  to  concentrate  itself  at  every  point 
at  once;  and  words  and  phrases  express  vastly 
more,  and  have  a  far  greater  force  and  beauty, 
than  they  would  have  had  in  prose.  Even  a 
quotation  torn  from  its  surroundings,  yet  bearing 
with  it  the  movement  of  the  rhythm  which  be- 
longed to  the  whole,  retains  something  of  this 
added  power. 

Another  result  of  the  rhythmical  form  is  that 
words  are  to  some  extent  freed  from  that  bond- 


78  POETRY. 

age  to  mere  use  which  is  so  largely  felt  in  prose. 
The  most  effective  words  and  the  most  effective 
arrangement  of  words  may  be  chosen.  Words 
and  arrangements  of  words  that  would  sound 
affected  in  prose  do  not  sound  affected  in  poetry, 
because  poetry  belongs  to  the  world  of  beauty 
and  not  to  that  of  use.  It  is  as  in  the  pomp  of  a 
procession,  in  which  trappings  and  uniforms  may 
be  worn  that  would  be  absurd  in  the  office  or 
counting-room  ;  and  a  regular  and  stately  stride 
can  be  maintained  which  would  be  ridiculous  if 
one  were  simply  going  to  his  place  of  business. 

Further,  rhythm  and  rhyme  accomplish  for 
the  creations  of  the  poetic  art  what  is  accom- 
plished for  the  creations  of  painting  and  sculp- 
ture by  the  material  which  they  employ.  They 
show  that  what  is  placed  before  us  is  not  the 
reality,  but  the  appearance.  Men  sometimes  ridi- 
cule the  conversations  which  in  the  opera  are 
carried  on  in  song,  and  in  the  drama  in  verse. 
They  might  as  well  insist  on  the  absurdity  of  the 
whiteness  of  a  marble  statue.  Each  art  uses  its 
own  material,  and  thereby  shows  that  it  is  an 
art.  The  thin  classicalities  of  an  earlier  poetry 
contributed  to  the  same  effect  of  unreality.  They 
showed  the  utterance  of  the  poem  to  be  in  some 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  79 

way  foreign  to  the  realities  of  life.  They  proved 
to  be,  however,  too  great  a  refinement.  The 
measure  itself  is  sufficient  for  this  end,  and  all 
else  tends  to  make  the  representation  seem  vacant. 
Rhythm  and  rhyme  accomplish  this  severance 
from  the  world  of  actuality  by  means  of  art ;  the 
classicalities  just  referred  to  did  this  artificially. 
Rhyme  and  rhythm  do  this,  because  they  form 
the  material  with  which  poetry  works,  as  painting 
works  with  color,  and  sculpture  with  form.  To- 
gether they  make  up  the  most  melodious  speech. 
The  classicalities  did  this  by  adding  something 
foreign  and  needless. 

Goethe  recognizes  in  a  striking  manner  the 
effect  of  rhyme  and  rhythm  in  giving  a  certain 
air  of  unreality  to  the  scenes  depicted,  when,  in  a 
letter  to  Schiller,  he  speaks  of  transforming  the 
closing  scene  of  the  first  part  of  the  "Faust" 
from  prose  to  poetry.  He  says  in  effect  that 
when  rhyme  is  used,  the  meaning  is  seen  through 
it  as  through  a  veil,  and  the  direct  working  of  the 
•  terrible  scene  is  softened. 

The  question  that  we  left  unanswered  is  thus 
settled  for  us.  Poetry  must  be  reckoned  among 
the  representative  arts.  Even  in  its  lyrical  form, 
it  does  not  directly  express  passion  ;  it  represents- 


8O  POETRY. 

passion.  It  is  the  picture,  not  the  reality.  A 
man  under  the  pressure,  let  us  say,  of  some 
great  grief,  would  hardly  find  the  direct  and 
natural  expression  of  his  sorrow  in  the  artificial 
methods  of  poetry.  A  rhythmic  utterance  pas- 
sion may,  indeed,  naturally  assume ;  but  the 
measuring  of  lines,  the  search  for  rhymes,  the 
testing  the  musical  effect  of  consonants  and  vow- 
els as  they  succeed  one  another,  all  this  is  not 
the  natural  utterance  of  sorrow.  What  is  true  of 
sorrow  is  true  of  the  other  passions.  From  our 
study  of  other  representative  arts,  we  should 
expect  to  find  poetry  dealing  with  representa- 
tions, not  with  realities  ;  the  form  of  poetry  shows 
this  to  be  the  case.  We  must,  then,  insist  that 
poetry  is  a  representative  art. 

Although  the  result  just  stated  seems  to  have 
been  proved,  it  may  appear  to  us  hardly  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  truth.  We  feel  that  the  poem 
deals  with  realities.  The  conceits  of  Cowley  we 
call  artificial  because  they  are  the  products  of  art 
rather  than  nature.  Thus,  wherever  we  find 
marks  of  excessive  art,  we  deny  that  the  poetry  is 
real  poetry.  This  would  seem  to  imply  that  true 
poetry  is  not  art  but  nature.  Poetry  has  to  do 
with  reality  because  it  represents  reality.  We 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  8 1 

have  here  the  most  wonderful  exhibition  of  the 
power  of  self-consciousness.  The  passion  must 
be  there.  The  poet  must  feel ;  yet  he  must  in 
some  sense  put  the  feeling  outside  of  himself,  — 
must,  as  one  has  said,  hold  it  at  arm's  length  and 
contemplate  it,  and  then  he  must  copy  it  in  his 
verse.  The  poem  is  representative,  but  the  real- 
ity must  be  there  in  order  that  it  may  be  repre- 
sented. 

Perhaps  this  mingling  of  the  reality  and  the 
semblance  may  be  best  expressed  by  the  state- 
ment that  the  feeling  as  uttered  in  the  poem  is  no 
longer  individual ;  it  has  become  universal.  We 
have  seen  that  all  art  deals  with  the  typical ;  in 
other  words  with  the  ideal.  It  is  so  with  poetry. 
It  utters  the  private  joys  or  loves  or  sorrows  of  a 
single  heart  in  such  a  way  that  the  utterance 
may  stand  for  the  joys,  the  loves,  and  the  sor- 
rows of  all  hearts.  The  poet's  private  possession 
of  his  own  mood  is  lost.  His  individual  emotion 
is  swallowed  up  in  the  universal  expression. 
Thus  his  own  mood  hovers  before  him  as  a  mat- 
ter of  contemplation,  as  something  that  belongs 
to  the  race  rather  than  to  himself.  It  is  ac- 
cepted by  the  race  as  belonging  to  it  rather  than 
to  him. 


82  POETRY. 

We  thus  understand  the  relief  that  poetry 
brings  to  the  overcharged  heart.  The  cry  re- 
lieves by  setting  free  the  pent-up  energies  of  the 
nature.  The  poem  relieves  by  taking  the  emo- 
tion for  the  moment  out  from  the  heart  that  felt 
it,  placing  it  over  against  the  spirit  so  that  it 
looks  upon  it  as  if  from  the  outside.  This  may 
be  illustrated  by  some  of  the  most  famous  poems 
of  sorrow.  Milton  and  Shelley  placed  at  the 
head  of  their  utterances  of  grief,  not  the  names 
of  the  friends  for  whom  they  sorrowed,  but 
strange  names,  —  Lycidas  and  Adonais.  It  was 
as  much  as  to  say,  It  is  not  our  sorrow  that  we 
utter :  it  is  the  world's  sorrow.  Emerson  ex- 
presses something  the  same  feeling  with  a  sub- 
lime natveti  in  his  "  Threnody  "  :  — 

"  Not  mine ;  I  never  called  thee  mine, 
But  Nature's  heir." 

We  have  thus  reached  the  reconciliation  of  the 
two  definitions  of  poetry  with  which  we  started. 
We  have  found  that  poetry  is  an  imitative  art  ; 
we  have  found  also  the  necessity  of  passion  in 
poetry.  Though  the  passion  be  not  directly 
uttered,  yet  its  presence  is  implied.  If  poetry  is 
representative,  there  must  be  some  reality  that  is 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  83 

represented.  We  criticise  the  conceits  of  Cow- 
ley,  for  instance,  not  because  they  are  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  term  artificial,  but  because 
they  are  poor  art.  They  do  not  really  represent 
that  which  they  profess  to  represent.  There  is, 
indeed,  one  passion  of  which  poetry  is  the  more 
direct  expression  than  of  any  other.  It  is  the 
passion  for  which  an  indirect  expression  may  be 
the  most  natural  and  real.  It  is  the  passion  for 
the  ideal  itself.  It  is  any  form  of  real  admira- 
tion, love,  or  reverence.  The  worshipper  elabo- 
rates the  temple,  or  works  out  the  image,  of  his 
divinity  with  tender  care,  because  by  such  care 
alone  can  he  show  his  reverence.  The  painter 
who  is  a  lover  of  nature  works  with  a  like  tender- 
ness and  a  like  care,  as  he  strives  to  represent 
those  traits  which  are  so  precious  to  him ;  and 
this  very  care,  this  very  delicacy  of  treatment, 
testifies  to  the  love  with  which  he  works.  This 
passion  for  the  ideal  must  underlie  all  art,  and 
therefore  all  poetry.  This  passion  need  not 
express  itself  by  adjectives  of  emotion,  though 
these  may  have  their  place.  Its  truest  expres- 
sion is  the  fidelity  and  the  typical  truth  of  the 
picture  itself.  Look,  for  instance,  at  the  power 
of  the  poem,  "  Dies  Irae."  The  translator  speaks 


84  POETRY. 

of  "  that  awful  day."  The  original  hardly  needs 
to  tell  us  that  the  day  is  an  awful  one. 

To  say  that  poetry  is  not  the  direct  expression 
of  passion,  but  that  it  presents  its  image  only, 
may  seem  at  first  sight  to  make  a  distinction 
where  there  is  very  little  difference.  The  dis- 
tinction, however,  is  one  of  fundamental  impor- 
tance. It  solves  many  of  the  difficulties  that 
have  beset  the  theory  of  poetry,  and  answers 
many  of  the  questions  that  have  arisen  in  regard 
to  it.  Before  applying  the  principle  to  such  solu- 
tion of  problems,  we  must  first  be  sure  that  the 
distinction  itself  is  perfectly  clear  to  our  minds. 

The  expression  of  passion  is  natural,  sponta- 
neous, and  in  extreme  cases  irrepressible.  Such 
expression  may  take  form  in  complaint,  in  invec- 
tive, in  praise,  or  in  exultation.  A  perception  of 
the  artificial,  of  the  manufactured,  in  such  ex- 
pression, weakens  it  and  makes  it  unreal.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  image  or  representation  of 
passion  is  a  product  of  conscious  art.  In  it  we 
demand,  indeed,  the  very  perfection  of  art.  For 
such  representation  poetry  is,  for  the  reasons 
that  have  been  given,  especially  fitted,  though  of 
course  prose  may  be  used  for  the  same  purpose. 

Again,  the  expression  of  passion,  so  far  as  it 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  85 

has  a  conscious  end,  is  meant  to  draw  attention  to 
one's  self.  It  is  meant,  perhaps,  to  secure  help ; 
at  least  it  is  meant  to  win  sympathy.  This  is 
not  an  unworthy  motive.  The  stricken  heart 
longs  for  sympathy  and  is  comforted  by  it.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  representation  of  the  passion 
has  no  such  individual  aim.  Its  object  is  not  to 
win  sympathy,  but  to  create  an  object  of  beauty. 
If  any  personal  aim  is  mingled  with  this,  it  is  the 
hope  for  fame.  In  his  loftiest  mood,  the  poet 
hopes  to  add  to  the  treasures  of  the  world  an- 
other thing  of  beauty  that  shall  be  to  it  "a  joy 
forever,"  —  a  joy  even  though  the  beauty  that  it 
presents  be  the  beauty  of  sorrow.  Who,  for 
instance,  thinks  of  Tennyson  in  reading  the  "  In 
Memoriam,"  except  so  far  as  one  thinks  of  him 
to  admire  and  wonder  at  his  genius  ?  Who,  in 
reading  the  "  In  Memoriam,"  pities  Tennyson  for 
the  loss  of  such  a  friend  as  he  describes  ?  Who 
dreams  that  Tennyson  wrote  to  win  such  sym- 
pathy? As  we  read,  we  are  entranced  by  the 
beauty  of  sorrow  as  it  is  imaged  in  melodious 
verse.  We  rejoice  still  more  in  the  beauty  of  a 
faith  that  conquers  sorrow.  If  from  this  admira- 
tion we  pass  by  reflection  to  the  thought  of  the 
reality  that  underlies  the  whole,  we  reach,  not 


86  POETRY. 

the  individual,  but  the  universal.     We  feel,  in 
the  familiar  language  of  the  poem  itself,  that 

"  Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all." 

It  is  this  we  feel,  not  the  special  sorrow  of  the 
individual  who  wrote  the  poem. 

The  fact  that  poetry  is  a  representative  art, 
and  the  difference  between  representation  and 
direct  expression,  may  now  be  assumed  to  be 
clear.  It  remains  to  apply  the  result  that  we 
have  reached  to  the  explanation  of  certain  char- 
acteristics of  poetry. 

Dr.  Holmes,  in  his  work  on  Emerson,  illus- 
trates by  a  witty  conceit  the  fact,  that  confi- 
dences which  in  prose  would  seem  too  personal 
for  utterance  are  accepted  in  poetry  as  in  per- 
fect taste.  The  true  explanation  of  this  fact  is 
found  in  the  principle  which  we  have  just 
reached.  In  the  poem  we  have  the  image,  not 
the  reality.  In  reading  the  poem  we  do  not 
think  of  the  individuality  of  the  author,  but  sim- 
ply of  the  song  he  sings  ;  or,  if  we  think  of  him, 
it  is  only  to  thank  him  for  the  song. 

The  principle  that  we  have  established  ena- 
bles us  to  understand  why  some  persons  have 
no  taste  for  poetry.  They  have  what  we  call 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  8/ 

prosaic  souls.  While  poetry  has  to  do  with  the 
image,  they  are  bound  to  the  real ;  while  poetry 
has  to  do  with  the  universal,  they  cannot  escape 
from  the  power  of  the  individual.  They  either 
see  no  worth  in  the  mere  formal  representation, 
or  they  at  once  pass  through  it  to  the  special 
fact  which  it  represents.  It  has  been  said  of 
such  that  they  have  no  imagination.  I  am  not 
quite  sure  of  this.  They  imagine  the  scene  so 
distinctly  that  it  seems  to  them  real.  The  diffi- 
culty is  that  they  cannot  rest  in  the  world  of  the 
imagination,' but  rush  through  to  the  fact  behind. 

The  general  results  that  have  been  reached 
enable  us  to  explain  why  certain  themes  are 
not  suitable  for  poetry. 

Since  poetry  is  the  representation  and  not  the 
expression  of  passion,  certain  feelings  are  obvi- 
ously unfitted  for  its  use,  namely,  those  that  are 
so  intense  that  the  poet  cannot  separate  himself 
from  them,  cannot  hold  himself  aloof  to  draw 
their  image.  Such  is  the  sorrow  that  is  most 
strong  in  contrast  with 

"  The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said." 

Since  poetry,  like  all  art  and  all  beauty,  is 
something  for  contemplation  alone,  we  find  a  fur- 
ther limitation  of  the  field  of  poetry,  and  indeed 


88  POETRY. 

of  all  art,  in  the  fact  that  nothing  can  be  fitly  im- 
aged which  is  of  such  a  nature  that  the  spectator, 
the  reader,  or  the  hearer  cannot  rest  with  the 
image.  This  is  the  case  if  the  image  tends  to 
excite  longing  or  disgust  or  horror,  as  if  the  real 
object  were  present.  The  line  here  indicated 
may  be,  indeed,  somewhat  conventional.  In  the 
classic  days  of  the  French  drama,  effects  were 
excluded  which  we  now  contemplate  with  equa- 
nimity ;  but  still  there  is  a  point  at  which  the 
line  is  real  and  not  conventional. 

A  further  limitation  of  the  material  which  is 
suitable  for  poetry  is  found  in  the  fact  that,  like 
all  art  and  all  beauty,  it  is  the  manifestation  of 
the  ideal. 

There  has  been  much  discussion  as  to  the  rel- 
ative claims  of  idealism  and  realism.  The  dis- 
cussion has  been  sometimes  confused  by  the  fact 
that  the'  difference  between  idealism  and  realism 
has  not  been  clearly,  or  at  least  not  truly,  dis- 
cerned. The  ideal,  as  we  have  already  seen, 
properly  implies  the  typical  or  characteristic. 
Beauty  is  the  manifestation  of  the  ideal ;  repre- 
sentative art  is  the  representation  of  this.  The 
qualifications  which  these  statements  require 
have  been  glanced  at  in  the  earlier  part  of  this 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  89 

discussion.  In  this  use  of  the  term,  which  I 
conceive  is  the  only  proper  one,  the  "  idealist,"  in 
the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  is  the  "  realist "  as 
well.  We  may  thus  understand  the  fallacy  of 
that  so-called  realism  which  assumes  that  one 
aspect  of  life,  if  it  be  only  actual,  is  as  fit  a  sub- 
ject for  painting  or  poetry  as  any  other.  Man 
is  an  animal,  but  his  animality  is  not  that  which 
is  most  distinctive  of  him  as  a  man,  and  there- 
fore is  not  the  true  matter  for  poetry.  That  is 
a  true  idealism  which  demands  in  poetry  some 
hint  at  least  of  the  ideal  or  typical  man.  This 
does  not  mean  that  poetry  must  always  assume 
the  grande  manure,  or  that  only  the  angelic  is 
a  fit  theme  for  song.  Man  is  not  an  angel,  and 
the  angelic  is,  therefore,  not  that  which  is  most 
typical  of  him  ;  and  naturalness,  above  all  things, 
is  to  be  demanded.  Even  the  lower  aspects  of 
life,  up  to  a  certain  limit,  may  be  exhibited,  if 
they  are  illuminated  by  something  higher  than 
themselves  ;  or  if  they  set  off  the  higher  by  con- 
trast, as  in  that  line  of  Tennyson,  terribly  real- 
istic in  the  lower  sense  of  the  word  :  — 

"  Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear  them  feed." 

The  same  may  be  done  in  satire  and  invective, 
where,  however,  we  pass  out  from  the  realm  of 


90  POETRY. 

poetry  as,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  a  fine 
art. 

We  may  notice  here  a  curious  distinction. 
Even  the  temperance  man  may  sing  drinking 
songs,  but  the  glutton  does  not  sing  eating  songs. 
We  can  sing  :  — 

"  O  landlord  fill  the  flowing  bowl ! " 

We  cannot  sing:  — 

O  landlord  bring  the  loaded  platter  ! 

There  is  a  god  of  the  wine-cup.  I  know  of  no 
god  of  the  tureen.  Bacchus,  the  god  of  the  vine, 
came  drinking.  Ceres,  the  goddess  of  grain,  did 
not  come  eating.  The  difference  is  that,  while 
eating  belongs  to  the  essential  necessities  of  our 
individual  lives,  the  cup  kindles  the  imagination. 
It  tends,  for  the  moment,  to  free  one  from  the 
prosaic  details  of  life.  It  brings  a  semblance, 
poor,  tawdry,  disappointing,  and  hindering  indeed, 
but  yet  a  semblance,  of  the  higher  and  freer  life 
of  the  spirit. 

We  understand  by  the  principle  that  has  been 
developed  why  a  mere  list  of  objects,  such  as 
Walt  Whitman  sometimes  gives,  is  not  poetry. 
We  see  where  poetry  begins.  Poetry,  like  all 
representative  art,  begins  with  the  construction 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  91 

of  an  image ;  and  a  name  is  not  an  image. 
Poetry  involves  a  certain  idealizing  element ; 
that  is,  the  image  of  a  beautiful  object  should 
bring  out  the  special  traits  that  make  the  thing 
what  it  is.  We  call  it  a  low  stage  of  art  where 
the  boy  has  to  write  beneath  his  picture,  "  This 
is  a  horse."  But  suppose  the  words  to  be  written 
without  the  image.  In  this  case  we  have  neither 
art  nor  poetry.  In  poems  such  as  have  been  re- 
ferred to  we  have  the  "  This  is  a  horse  "  with- 
out the  picture.  Walt  Whitman,  however,  gives 
us  not  merely  lists.  He  gives  us  pictures  also, 
more  or  less  complete.  These  are  crowded  to- 
gether, some  repulsive,  some  terrible,  some  beau- 
tiful. They  are  like  faces  that  peer  at  us  for  a 
moment  in  a  dream.  They  are  like  forms  that 
are  swept  past  by  some  rushing  river,  —  that 
emerge  for  a  moment  and  then  sink  back  into  the 
swirl.  But  poetry,  like  all  art,  demands  a  certain 
completeness.  In  Italy  one  sometimes  sees  a 
wall  in  which  bits  of  sculpture  and  bas-relief  are 
mingled  with  common  stones.  Such  a  wall  is 
interesting,  but  if  is  not  art.  I  am  happy  to  add 
that  now  and  then  Walt  Whitman  manifests  his 
strength  without  the  extravagance  into  which 
false  theories  of  art  have  led  him. 


92  POETRY. 

If  our  principle  shows  us  where  poetry  begins, 
it  also  shows  us  where  it  ends.  Poetry  is  a  rep- 
resentative art.  It  is  a  process  of  imaging  in 
words.  Even  though  the  image  be  so  tenuous 
that  it  cannot  be  reduced  to  the  terms  of  the 
senses,  it  must  nevertheless  exist.  There  must 
be  a  vision,  an  anschaunng,  though  it  be  for  the 
subtilest  perception  of  the  spirit  alone.  There 
must  be  a  fusing  of  elements  into  a  unity  in 
which  they  exist  only  as  the  parts  of  an  undi- 
vided and  indivisible  whole.  No  mere  intellect- 
ual statement,  no  mathematical  or  philosophical 
problem,  can  be  poetry,  because  there  is  no  such 
image  on  the  one  side,  and  no  such  vision  on  the 
other.  The  imagination  had  nothing  to  do  with 
its  creation,  and  to  the  imagination  it  does  not 
appeal.  This  fact  is  what,  as  I  suppose,  Milton 
had  in  mind  when  he  said  that  poetry  should  be 
sensuous.  At  any  rate,  it  expresses  whatever 
truth  there  is  in  this  statement. 

A  prominent  metaphysician  quotes  four  lines 
from  what  he  calls  a  beautiful  poem.  The  lines 
are  these :  — 

"  The  essence  of  mind's  being  is  the  stream  of  thought, 

Difference  of  mind's  being  is  difference  of  the  stream  ; 
Within  this  single  difference  may  be  brought 
The  countless  differences  that  are  or  seem." 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  93 

The  poem  as  a  whole  may  be  beautiful,  but 
these  lines  are  certainly  not  poetry.  But  why, 
it  may  be  asked,  are  they  not  poetry  ?  There  is 
certainly  an  image,  and  the  image  is  not  one  of 
mere  comparison ;  it  is  a  metaphor,  in  which  the 
elements  that  are  compared  are  fused  together. 
The  mind  is  called  a  stream.  The  answer  is  that 
the  figure  is  conventional  and  merely  explana- 
tory. There  is  no  construction  by  the  imagina- 
tion. It  is,  further,  abstract.  We  neither  see  by 
the  imagination,  nor  conjecture  by  the  intellect, 
what  are  the  "  differences  of  the  stream  "  referred 
to.  Is  it  that  the  stream  moves  more  or  kss 
rapidly  ?  That  it  is  more  or  less  turbid  ?  That 
it  is  broader  or  narrower  ?  There  was  no  stream 
present  to  the  mind  of  the  writer.  The  figure 
is  merely  what  a  familiar  phrase  would  call,  by 
an  unintended  satire,  "  a  figure  of  speech." 

From  all  that  has  been  said,  we  may  see  some- 
thing of  the  sweep  of  poetry. ,  It  may  represent 
whatever  stirs  the  heart  to  admiration.  It  may 
image  all  emotion  or  passion  that  contains  the 
beginning  of  a  larger  life,  that  takes  one  in  any 
sense  out  of  one's  self  ;  or  it  may  rise  to  the 
loftiest  heights  which  imagination  can  reach, 
checked  only  by  the  thin  air  in  which  its  wings 


94  POETRY. 

are  powerless.  It  may  represent  the  passion  of 
the  lover,  who  finds  his  ideal  embodied  in  a  hu- 
man form ;  or  it  may  sing  with  Wordsworth  the 
not  less  passionate  love  of  nature ;  or  like  Emer- 
son, with  equal  passion,  it  may  hymn  the  praise 
of  the  absolute  ideal  of  beauty  which  manifests 
itself  in  all  fair  forms  of  nature  and  life  :  — 

"  All  that 's  good  and  great  with  thee 
Works  in  close  conspiracy ; 
Thou  hast  bribed  the  dark  and  lonely 
To  report  thy  features  only, 
And  the  cold  and  purple  morning, 
Itself  with  thoughts  of  thee  adorning." 

Or,  if  only  the  form  be  that  of  vision  rather 
than  mere  intellectual  utterance,  it  may  hymn 
the  praise  of  that  infinite  Presence  which  is  the 
creator  and  the  inspiration  of  beauty,  —  a  height 
of  song  which  Wordsworth  and  Emerson  have 
reached  in  their  loftiest  flights. 

This  passion  for  the  ideal  is  not,  as  some  have 
thought,  an  intellectual  appreciation.  It  is  the 
rapture  of  the  heart,  and  not  merely  a  recogni- 
tion of  the  thought. 

We  cannot  leave  our  theme  without  adding  a 
word  in  regard  to  the  ethical  aspect  of  poetry. 
In  itself,  poetry  has  no  moral  character.  What 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  95 

is  called  "  didactic  poetry  "  is  poetry  only  as  to  its 
form.  Precepts  of  morality  are  not  poetry,  any 
more  than  propositions  of  geometry  or  philoso- 
phy. It  is  true,  indeed,  that  moral  truth  may  be 
fused  by  the  imagination,  and  cast  into  such  a 
form  of  beauty  that  the  result  is  a  work  of  art, 
independently  of  the  lesson  that  one  would 
teach.  This  is  simply  to  say  that  moral  facts, 
like  so  many  other  facts,  may  be  treated  aesthet- 
ically. Take,  as  a  magnificent  example,  Tenny- 
son's "  Palace  of  Art."  Here  we  have  the  trag- 
edy of  a  soul 

"  That  did  love  Beauty  only ; 

seeing  not 

That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are  three  sisters 
That  never  can  be  sundered  without  tears." 

The  .tragedy  is  a  real  one  ;  as  real  as  that  of 
Clytemnestra,  and  more  terrible  than  that.  The 
one,  as  truly  as  the  other,  presented  itself  to  the 
poet  in  its  aesthetic  aspect,  and  is  so  accepted  by 
the  reader ;  and  we  may  draw  a  lesson  as  truly 
from  the  one  as  from  the  other. 

We  must  notice,  in  passing,  that  the  lines 
quoted  from  Tennyson  do  not  touch  the  question 
as  to  whether  art  should  have  an  end  beyond 
itself.  The  soul  was  guilty  because  it  "did  love 


96  POETRY. 

beauty  only."  It  would  live  in  a  palace  of  art 
from  which  all  the  realities  of  life  were  excluded. 
It  does  not  follow  that  its  art  should  have  had 
an  ethical  aim,  but  simply  that  the  soul  itself 
should  have  had  an  ethical  aim.  We  are  taught 
that  the  world  of  art  does  not  furnish  the  com- 
plete environment  of  the  spirit. 

So  far  as  the  battle  between  the  defender  of 
"art  for  art's  sake,"  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
moralist  on  the  other,  is  concerned,  I  hold  that 
the  former  is  right  in  his  principle,  while  the 
latter  is  right  in  certain  of  his  results.  Some  of 
the  material  which  the  moralist  would  exclude 
from  art  on  moral  grounds,  I  would  exclude  on 
artistic  grounds.  In  discussing  the  matter  of 
realism  and  idealism,  we  saw  that  there  is  a  line, 
vague  and  uncertain  indeed,  yet  real,  beyond 
which  material  suited  for  aesthetic  representa- 
tion cannot  be  sought.  This  outlying  material 
should  be  excluded  from  art  for  the  sake  of  art 
itself. 

It  is  true  that  "to  the  pure  all  things  are 
pure."  This  is  because  the  pure  mind  is  content 
to  accept  the  reserves  of  nature.  In  violating 
these,  the  art  that  prides  itself  upon  its  natural- 
ness has  become  unnatural,  and  is,  so  far,  false 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  POETRY.  97 

art.  To  the  clean  all  things  are  clean  ;  but  that 
is  because  the  cleanly  person  is  not  fond  of  dab- 
bling in  the  dirt.  He  knows  how  to  keep  the 
proper  relations  of  things,  and  only  for  that  rea- 
son is  he  clean.  No  more  than  another  could  he 
touch  pitch  without  being  denied. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
poetry,  like  all  art,  may  be  harmful  to  the  best 
life.  As  Tennyson's  poem  has  just  shown  us, 
art  may  harm  the  spirit  by  detaching  it  from 
all  earnest  purpose,  and  placing  it  in  a  world  of 
contemplation  alone.  All  aesthetic  pleasure,  the 
love  of  nature  itself,  may  accomplish  the  same 
result.  Further,  poetry  may,  by  the  halo  that  it 
casts  about  them,  allure  the  spirit  to  lower  joys, 
even  without  crossing  the  line  at  which  art 
ceases  to  be  art.  —  Naturally,  however,  poetry 
works  for  good.  It  may  detach  the  spirit  from 
bondage  to  the  petty,  hard,  and  often  debasing 
facts  of  life.  It  may  take  something  of  their 
grossness  from  the  lowest  joys ;  while  the  spirit 
that  will  yield  itself  to  its  guidance  may  be  led 
by  it  towards  the  contemplation  of  that  highest 
ideal  which  is  the  one  absolute  reality. 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE. 

THE  material  with  which  poetry  has  to  do  may 
be  regarded  under  two  general  divisions.  One 
of  these  is  the  world  of  nature  ;  the  other  is  that 
of  human  life.  The  former  I  consider  under  the 
present  heading.  One  important  aspect  of  the 
latter  will  be  discussed  in  the  next  chapter. 

In  the  study  of  "  The  Philosophy  of  Poetry," 
we  glanced  at  the  conditions  under  which  the 
external  world  becomes  beautiful  to  us  ;  and  rec- 
ognized the  relation  of  man  to  nature,  out  from 
which  the  enjoyment  of  natural  beauty  springs. 
All  this,  however,  even  if  we  were  able  to  xstudy 
it  more  profoundly,  would  not  justify  the  peculiar 
charm  which  nature  has  for  us,  —  the  charm 
which  has  inspired  some  of  the  loftiest  poetry, 
and  which  is  felt  by  all  who  have  any  touch  of 
the  poetic  inspiration.  Indeed,  there  is  prevalent 
a  view  of  the  world,  that  is  not  wholly  without 
foundation,  which  would  seem  to  make  this  de- 
light in  nature  impossible. 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.          99 

There  is  perhaps  no  contrast  in  literature  more 
striking  than  that  between  the  essay  of  John 
Stuart  Mill,  entitled  "  Nature,"  and  the  essay  of 
Emerson  which  bears  the  same  name. "  Both 
would  picture  to  us  the  same  reality.  In  the  one 
case,  however,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  presence 
of  a  demon ;  in  the  other,  of  a  divinity.  There 
may  be  some  exaggeration  in  both  these  repre- 
sentations. Certainly  Mill  fails  to  recognize 
some  elements  of  the  theme.  "In  sober  truth," 
he  tells  us,  "  nearly  all  the  things  which  men  are 
hanged  or  imprisoned  for  doing  to  each  other 
are  nature's  every-day  performances  ; "  and  here 
follows  a  picture  of  the  suffering  and  death 
which  nature  is  constantly  producing.  Pope's 

"  Shall  gravitation  cease  when  you  go  by  " 
is  quoted  with  derision.  "A  man  who  should 
persist  in  hurling  stones  or  firing  cannon  when 
another  man  'goes  by,'  and  having  killed  him 
urge  a  similar  plea  in  extenuation,  would  very  de- 
servedly be  found  guilty  of  murder."  —  This  of 
course  depends  upon  circumstances.  It  is  not  so 
in  war,  for  instance.  There  may  be  occupations 
in  which  the  stones  or  the  cannon-balls  might  not 
be  kept  back  even  for  a  friend  who  might  be  in 
the  way,  as  the  lightening  of  a  suddenly  sink- 


IOO  POETRY. 

ing  ship,  or  the  defence  of  a  hardly  pressed  fort, 
where  a  moment's  delay  might  make  the  dif- 
ference between  common  loss  and  safety.  The 
execution  of  the  public  laws  cannot  turn  out  of 
its  way  for  individuals.  If  we  consider  that  the 
stability  of  the  universe  depends  upon  the  stead- 
fastness of  the  laws  of  nature,  the  criticism  of 
Mill  will  seem  trivial. 

Whether  in  the  statements  of  Emerson  there 
be  or  be  not  any  similar  exaggeration,  is  a  mat- 
ter of  mood  and  sentiment.  The  merely  prosaic 
mind  may  perhaps  fail  to  enter  into  the  fulness 
of  his  enthusiasm.  But  a  mood  and  a  senti- 
ment are  to  a  great  extent  their  own  justification. 
They  prove  at  least  the  adequateness  of  their 
cause.  In  the  lives  of  many,  indeed,  there  are 
times  when  the  words  of  Emerson  would  seem 
to  be  so  true  as  to  be  commonplace.  They  ex- 
press the  poetic  view  of  nature.  The  poets 
abound  in  similar  utterances.  Much  of  our  mod- 
ern poetry  is  based  upon  a  similar  conception  ; 
we  enjoy  the  expression  of  it  and  do  not  doubt 
its  truth.  The  words  of  Emerson  are,  however, 
so  clear  and  so  felicitous  that,  perhaps  better 
than  any  others,  they  may  be  contrasted  with  the 
utterance  of  Mill,  and  all  the  more  pointedly 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         IOI 

since  they  express  the  poetic  sentiment  in  plain 
prose. 

The  curious  contrast  between  these  essays  is 
heightened  by  the  fact  that  both  contain  so  much 
truth.  That  of  Mill,  in  spite  of  some  exaggera- 
tion, presents  an  aspect  of  nature  that  cannot 
be  overlooked.  The  forces  of  nature  certainly 
have  no  respect  for  persons.  In  this  sense  na- 
ture may  not  be  called  immoral,  but  she  is  cer- 
tainly unmoral.  Through  all  the  ranks  of  the 
lower  nature  there  prevails,  to  a  large  extent,  a 
commonplace  selfishness.  I  call  it  selfishness 
because  each  plant  and  animal  is  pressing  to 
maintain  itself,  to  satisfy  its  own  needs  and  de- 
sires, with  little  thought,  for  the  most  part,  for 
others.  I  call  this  selfishness  commonplace, 
because  it  concerns  simply  the  most  ordinary 
wants  of  life.  The  satisfaction  of  these  wants 
is  elevated  by  no  lofty  sentiments  or  ideas.  An 
elephant,  for  instance,  is  a  beast  that  by  its  vast- 
ness,  its  gentleness,  its  gravity,  its  intelligence, 
has  an  air  of  nobility.  I  confess  there  is  some- 
thing about  it  almost  akin  to  sublimity.  On 
the  other  hand  there  is  something  humiliating, 
almost  painful,  in  seeing  this  magnificent  beast 
begging  for  gingerbread  or  peanuts,  there  is  such 


102  POETRY. 

intentness,  such  absorption  in  the  plea.  So,  too, 
a  horse  is  full  of  spirit  and  life.  There  seems 
something  akin  to  genius  about  him.  His  rider 
cannot  help  imagining  him  as  the  companion  of 
his  loftiest  sentiments,  if  not  of  his  loftiest 
thoughts.  But  how  the  hope  of  a  bit  of  sugar  or 
an  apple  will  absorb  the  whole  nature  of  the 
horse !  How  eager  he  is,  and  when  the  demand 
is  gratified,  what  delight !  These  examples  are 
types  of  the  life  of  the  lower  world.  We  speak 
of  nature  as  one  ;  but  nature  is  an  accumulation 
of  petty  lives,  each  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of 
the  lowest  ends.  The  voices  of  the  woods  which 
thrill  our  hearts,  the  form  of  bird  or  beast  or 
reptile  which  steals  across  our  view,  the  state- 
liness  of  the  tree,  the  beauty  of  the  flower,  all 
are  examples  of  the  same  kind  of  life  ;  all  bear 
signs  of  the  warfare  or  the  victory  in  this  strife 
for  the  lowest  ends. 

Science,  at  first  exalting  us  by  its  revelations, 
in  the  end  makes  the  universe  more  prosaic  than 
it  was  before.  What  visions  we  had  of  the  life 
among  the  stars  !  What  lofty  societies  of  spir- 
its purer  and  wiser  than  ours  did  we  imagine  to 
be  holding  blissful  intercourse  on  some  distant 
orb,  or  even  on  our  own  magnificent  sun  !  But 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.        IQ3 

science  has  kindled  fires  that  have  burned  up 
our  fair  imaginings.  What  habitable  systems 
may  be  lurking  around  these  grander  bodies  we 
cannot  say  ;  but  certainly  these  blazing  worlds  do 
not  offer  themselves  as  homes  for  any  kind  of 
population  with  which  we  would  care  to  people 
them.  Within  our  own  day  a  book  has  been 
published  containing,  among  other  things,  argu-  /, 
ments  to  prove  that  the  sun  is  the  abode  of  glori- 
fied spirits.  We  now  know  that  if  any  spirits 
dwell  among  its  raging  flames  they  cannot  be  the 
glorified.  Even  the  color  and  fragrance  of  the 
flower,  science  puts  into  her  most  prosaic  cate- 
gories. They  are  simply  the  means  by  which 
certain  classes  or  species  have  preserved  their 
being  by  making  themselves  conspicuous  enough 
to  attract  the  fertilizing  bee. 

We  thus  grant  the  essential  truthfulness  of 
Mill's  picture  of  nature.  Taken  in  detail,  nature 
is  commonplace  and  selfish.  Taken  as  a  whole, 
it  is  heartless  and  indifferent.  In  the  great 
struggle  for  existence,  it  is  an  impartial  and  un- 
interested umpire.  Whether  it  be  the  serpent  or 
the  dove,  whether  it  be  the  devil-fish  or  man,  its 
judgment  is  that  the  victor  shall  survive  and  the 
vanquished  perish.  What  place  is  then  left  for 


IO4  POETRY. 

the  fine  enthusiasm  of  Emerson  ?  What  is  there 
in  this  nature  to  so  touch  and  exalt  the  heart  ? 

While  we  ask  the  question,  even  before  we  ask 
the  question,  we  feel  that  he  also  is  right.  Even 
while  we  uttered  what  seemed  to  be  the  hard, 
commonplace  facts  in  regard  to  nature,  the  very 
forms  of  which  we  spoke  made  us  feel,  in  the 
very  naming  of  them,  the  power  of  their  beauty. 
We  pictured  the  stars  as  they  really  are,  merely 
vast  fire-balls ;  but  while  we  spoke,  the  very 
thought  of  them  awed  us  by  the  memory  of 
their  lofty  presence.  We  showed  the  common- 
place origin  of  the  scent  and  color  of  the  flow- 
ers ;  and  while  we  spoke  of  them,  the  memory  of 
their  beauty  found  its  way  into  our  hearts.  So 
the  lover  tries  to  chide  his  mistress  for  some 
fault,  but  while  he  speaks  her  beauty  smiles  away 
his  wrath,  and  the  words  begun  in  anger  end  in 
love. 

The  fascination  and  the  exalting  power  of 
nature  remain,  then,  real,  in  spite  of  all  the  ugly 
and  prosaic  facts  which  we  can  accumulate. 
John  Stuart  Mill,  whose  harsh  criticism  of  na- 
ture formed  our  starting-point,  may  himself  be  a 
witness  to  this  strange  power.  At  one  time  in 
his  youth  he  fell  into  a  deep  melancholy  which 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         IO5 

obstructed  the  exercise  of  all  his  powers,  taking 
away  his  interest  in  what  had  been  most  attrac- 
tive. The  charm  that  dissipated  the  cloud  which 
brooded  over  his  life  was  found  in  the  poems  of 
Wordsworth.  His  songs  soothed  the  troubled 
spirit  of  this  leader  of  men,  as  the  harp  of  David 
did  that  of  Saul.  But  the  songs  of  Wordsworth 
are  simply  the  breath  of  nature.  In  them  she 
finds  a  voice.  The  healing  power,  then,  was  that 
of  nature  of  which  he  afterwards  spoke,  as  we 
have  seen,  so  rudely.  This  soothing  and  recre- 
ating power  of  nature  is  beautifully  painted  in 
the  beginning  of  the  second  part  of  the  great 
poem  of  Goethe.  No  translation  can  give  any 
idea  of  the  eloquence  and  completed  beauty  of 
the  verse  in  which  is  described  this  baptism 
into  nature  of  the  sin-stained  and  world-weary 
Faust. 

We  may  then  listen  without  remonstrance  to 
the  words  of  Emerson  when  he  places  nature 
over  against  man  as  his  superior.  "  In  the  wilder- 
ness," he  tells  us,  "  I  find  something  more  dear 
and  connate  than  in  streets  or  villages.  In  the 
tranquil  landscape,  and  especially  in  the  distant 
line  of  the  horizon,  man  beholds  something  as 
beautiful  as  his  own  nature."  And  elsewhere 


106  POETRY. 

even  the  "wise  men  and  eminent  souls  "  seem  to 
him  a  result  unworthy  of  the  nature  out  from 
which  they  came.  We  can  find  no  more  strik- 
ing recognition  in  poetry  of  this  relation  between 
man  and  nature  than  the  following  lines  from 
Keats :  — 

"Yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall    • 
From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon ; 
Trees,  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  daffodils, 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;  and  clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season  ;  the  mid-forest  brake, 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms ; 
And  such,  too,  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead." 

We  read  these  lines  without  any  feeling  save 
that  of  enjoyment  of  the  luxuriant  beauty  which 
they  present  to  us  ;  but  when  we  fairly  think  of 
them  in  the  light  of  the  contrast  we  have  been 
considering,  we  can  but  ask  what  is  there  in  run- 
ning water,  in  trees  and  flowers,  that  should 
make  them  worthy  to  rank  as  the  equals  of  the 
dooms 

"  We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead." 

This  is  all  true  for  our  feeling ;  but  from  the 
point  of  view  of  our  reflection,  the  simplest  pres- 


THE   POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         107 

ence  of  conscious  thought  and  love  and  aspira- 
tion would  seem  to  be  worth  infinitely  more  than 
the  mechanical  movements  of  unorganized  nature, 
the  dull,  uneventful,  unconscious  life  of  the  plant, 
and  the  merely  sensuous  existence  of  bird  and 
animal.  A  single  true  and  loving  soul  would 
seem  to  be  a  worthy  outcome  of  all  the  mighty 
play  of  elemental  forces  from  which  have  issued 
the  worlds  of  organized  life. 

The  question  then  forces  itself  upon  us,  What 
is  the  secret  of  the  joy  we  take  in  the  lower 
nature,  and  of  the  soothing  and  uplifting  power 
which  it  has  for  us  ? 

The  fundamental  paradox  is  found  in  the  fact 
upon  which  we  have  already  dwelt,  namely,  that 
on  the  one  side  the  forms  of  nature  are  either 
lifeless,  or  manifest  a  very  low  order  of  vitality  ; 
that  nature  herself  is  unconscious,  and  unmoral 
if  not  immoral :  and  on  the  other  side,  that  this 
nature  has  such  power  over  us,  that  the  most 
pressing  interests  of  our  human  life  and  our 
loftiest  spiritual  culture  should  to  any  seem  in- 
significant in  comparison  with  it. 

The  solution  of  any  difficulty  is  found  often 
nearest  its  heart,  and  perhaps  we  may  in  this 
case  find  some  hint  of  the  solution  where  the 


108  POETRY. 

antithesis  of  the  elements  is  most  marked.  I 
am  not  sure  that  the  immorality  of  nature  which 
troubles  Mr.  Mill  so  much  is  not  one  source  of  its 
charm.  In  life  we  are  pressed  by  two  sorts  of 
spectres :  those  of  duties  to  be  done,  and  those 
of  duties  left  undone.  Or  if  this  statement  is 
too  strong,  there  is  at  least 

"  The  yoke  of  conscience  masterful 
That  galls  us  everywhere." 

In  our  intercourse  with  others,  in  our  observation 
of  the  affairs  of  life,  we  carry  the  same  standard. 
All  are  judged,  not  merely  by  their  pleasantness, 
but  also  by  their  conformity  to  the  great  stand- 
ard of  right. 

In  the  presence  of  nature  we  escape  this  thrall 
There  in  the  solitude  the  claims  of  the  world  lose 
their  hold  upon  us.  We  are  in  the  presence  of  a 
life  which  is  its  own  law.  Self-seeking  with  it  is 
not  meanness,  repose  is  not  idleness,  play  is  not 
frivolousness.  There  is  no  time  to  be  improved  ; 
therefore  there  is  no  time  to  be  wasted.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  done ;  therefore  there  is  nothing 
left  undone.  Each  individual  is  a  law  to  itself, 
and  life  is  only  play. 

Charles  Lamb  defended  the  comedies  of  a  not 
over-moral  age  against  the  charge  of  immorality. 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         ICX) 

He  maintained  that  in  them  we  simply  enter  a 
realm  to  which  the  rules  of  our  morality  do  not 
apply.  The  creations  of  the  comedy  are  not 
men  and  women  to  be  praised  or  blamed  ;  and  in 
this  fact  he  found  in  part  the  charm  of  these 
artistic  works.  It  does  not  follow  from  this  that 
Charles  Lamb  would  like  to  live  himself  in  such 
a  world ;  that  the  ethical  restraints  of  society 
were  really  irksome,  to  him  ;  that  he  would  gladly 
be  free  to  talk  and  act  like  the  heroes  of  the 
play :  it  means  simply  that  he  felt  it  a  pleasure 
and  a  diversion  to  contemplate  this  free  world 
which  was  so  unlike  his  own. 

Something  akin  to  this  may  be,  in  part,  the 
pleasure  which  we  take  in  the  world  of  nature. 
Nature  is  deeper,  larger,  tenderer  than  that 
mimic  world ;  but  still  it  involves  something  of 
the  same  sense  of  freedom. 

But  this  is  only  one  aspect  of  the  complete 
relation  of  the  life  of  nature  to  our  human  life. 
The  restraint  of  morality  is  only  one  example 
of  the  limitation  by  which  our  human  life  is 
bound.  Personality,  self-consciousness,  these  in 
a  certain  sense  mark  limits.  Self-consciousness 
shuts  off  sharply  my  life  from  the  lives  about  me. 
It  shuts  it  off  also  from  the  universal  life.  Every- 


HO  POETRY. 

thing  connected  with  our  human  society  bears 
marks  of  the  same  limitation.  In  one  aspect 
of  the  case,  we  can  say  indeed  that  the  prod- 
ucts of  our  human  civilization  are  as  natural 
as  the  products  of  vegetable  and  animal  life. 
A  man  builds  his  house  by  an  instinct  like  that 
by  which  the  bird  builds  its  nest.  Our  cities 
grow  where  nature  placed  them.  Caprice  only 
now  and  then  interferes  with  the  great  laws  that 
guide  the  choice  of  a  city's  site.  Our  manufac- 
turing establishments  are  as  natural  as  the 
beaver's  dam ;  our  political  institutions  as  nat- 
ural as  those  of  the  bees  and  the  ants ;  the 
course  of  trade  and  that  of  civilization  itself  are 
as  natural  as  the  courses  of  the  streams.  If, 
then,  all  the  creations  of  our  human  life  are  as 
natural  as  the  products  of  the  forests,  it  would 
appear  that  we  should  take  the  same  kind  of 
pleasure  in  them.  The  fact,  however,  is  that  we 
do  not.  The  feeling  with  which  we  walk  the 
streets  of  a  city,  however  tasteful  and  elegant 
these  streets  may  be,  is  of  a  nature  utterly  unlike 
that  with  which  we  tread  the  aisles  of  the 
forest,  or  the  path  which  leads  up  some  moun- 
tain side.  Human  works,  with  certain  excep- 
tions to  be  hereafter  named,  bear  the  marks  of 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         Ill 

human  limitation.  Even  the  animals  that  con- 
sort with  man  bear  trace  of  it.  A  horse,  how- 
ever beautiful,  does  not  affect  us  like  a  stag,  nor 
a  dog  like  a  squirrel.  A  cat,  perhaps,  bears  less 
the  mark  of  this  human  limitation  than  other 
domestic  animals.  While  with  us,  a  cat  is  rarely 
of  us.  She  lets  herself  be  fed  and  petted,  but 
keeps  her  own  counsel,  and  is  in  general,  in  the 
midst  of  our  civilization,  as  much  a  piece  of 
nature  as  the  stream  that  dashes  through  our 
garden. 

This  limitation  is  nothing  merely  accidental 
and  transient.  It  is  to  a  large  extent  the  very 
condition  of  human  development.  Intelligence 
is  by  its  very  nature  discrimination.  The  un- 
derstanding, is,  as  we  have  seen,  the  analyzer. 
The  greater  the  intelligence,  the  greater  the  dis- 
crimination. An  understanding  developed  to  in- 
finity would  imply  an  infinite  analysis.  By  the 
understanding  the  man  separates  his  life  from 
the  lives  about  him.  He  shuts  these  off  sharply 
from  one  another.  He  separates  his  own  ends 
and  aims,  and  sets  each  distinctly  before  himself. 
Each  at  the  moment  excludes  the  others,  just  as 
each  life  excludes  all  other  lives.  Thus  the 
development  of  the  understanding  implies  an 


112  POETRY. 

infinite  limitation.  It  implies  determination,  and 
"all  determination  is  limitation."  Thus  every 
human  work  is  the  expression,  not  merely  of  a 
single  human  life  which  had,  in  the  manner  indi- 
cated, consciously  shut  itself  off  from  all  other 
lives  ;  it  is  the  expression,  not  of  the  whole  even 
of  this  single  life,  but  of  a  single  idea  or  purpose 
which  was  consciously  held  at  the  moment,  dis- 
tinct from  all  others. 

Now  such  absolute  limitation  is  destructive 
to  the  highest  aesthetic  sense,  which  is  primarily 
a  sense  of  freedom.  This  may  be  illustrated  by 
a  principle  laid  down  by  Ruskin  that  every  inte- 
rior represented  in  a  picture  should  have  in  some 
way  an  opening  into  the  infinite. 

I  have  stated  that  this  limitation  is  true  of  hu- 
man works  with  some  exceptions.  These  excep- 
tions are  found  in  the  creations  of  the  highest 
art.  Yet  even  those  do  not  affect  us  in  the  man- 
ner in  which  we  are  moved  by  the  works  of 
nature.  I  would  not  compare  the  two,  for  that 
is  not  my  present  theme.  I  will  admit  that  the 
inspiration  derived  from  a  work  of  the  highest  art 
may  be  to  some  minds  more  intense  than  that 
derived  from  nature,  but  still  the  inspiration  is  of 
a  different  quality.  In  art  we  rarely  escape  fuJly 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         I  13 

the  sense  of  artificialness.  If  ever  we  do  wholly 
escape  this  in  the  presence  of  human  art,  I  think 
that  it  is  most  often  in  the  presence  of  religious 
architecture.  The  kin  ship  between  the  beauty  of 
nature  and  that  of  the  ideally  perfect  temple  may 
be  illustrated  by  the  fact  that,  when  the  aisle 
of  a  forest  vaguely  suggests  that  of  a  church,  the 
aesthetic  effect  is  deepened.  This,  I  think,  is  not 
true  of  any  other  resemblance  between  the  works 
of  nature  and  those  of  man.  Other  resemblances 
may  interest  or  amuse  us,  but  they  lie  out  of  the 
range  of  the  aesthetic  pleasure. 

We  have  thus  far  considered  our  theme  merely 
negatively.  We  have  seen  that  in  the  presence 
of  the  life  of  nature  we  escape  the  limitation  of 
human  life  and  of  human  works.  This  mere 
negative  element  is,  however,  not  sufficient 
This  may  be  escaped  in  the  sand  plain  as  well  as 
in  the  forest.  There  is  needed  for  the  full  result 
a  positive  element.  Our  enjoyment  of  nature  is 
not  merely  an  escape  ;  it  is  also  a  meeting  :  not 
merely  an  emptying,  but  a  fulfilling. 

In  nature  we  are  brought  into  the  presence 
of  a  fulness  of  life.  By  a  fulness  of  life  I  mean 
a  life  that  is  not  cut  up  into  a  multitude  of  lives, 
which  lives  are  in  turn  cut  up  into  a  multitude  of 


114  POETRY. 

thoughts  and  purposes.  By  life  I  do  not  mean 
merely  organized  life,  the  life  of  plant  and  ani- 
mal. In  nature  itself  is  a  life.  We  feel  the 
presence  of  this  life  in  the  mountain  and  the 
cataract,  as  truly  as  in  the  flower  and  the  bird. 
In  one  sense  this  life  of  nature  has  undergone 
infinite  division.  Every  animal,  every  plant, 
every  leaf,  is  distinct  from  every  other.  But  yet 
this  distinctness  is  only  superficial.  The  sepa- 
rateness  is  merely  for  the  beholder,  not  for  the 
things  themselves.  They  do  not  discriminate 
themselves  from  one  another.  Conscious  sep- 
arateness  does  not  exist.  The  unity  affects  us 
more  than  the  difference.  Hills  and  rivers,  trees 
and  animals,  flowers  and  birds,  are  separate  ex- 
istences only  in  the  sense  in  which  the  different 
leaves  of  the  same  tree  are  separate  existences. 
They  are  simply  different  manifestations  of  a 
common  life. 

What  is  more,  we  feel  vaguely  and  indistinctly 
indeed,  but  still  really,  that  this  life  is  ours  also  ; 
that  we  ourselves  are  not  merely  separate  indi- 
vidualities, but  that  we  also  are  manifestations 
of  this  common  life.  Hence  comes  in  part  the 
freedom  that  we  feel  in  such  contemplation.  We 
are  called  out  of  ourselves.  We  forget  ourselves. 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         11$ 

We  live  only  in  the  large,  unfettered  life  about 
us,  and  that  for  the  moment  lives  in  us. 

But  difficulties  still  meet  us.  After  all,  this 
life  is  lower  than  ours,  or  must  we  admit  that 
consciousness  is  lower  than  unconsciousness  ? 
This  would  imply  that  the  great  movement  of 
a  development  that  has  culminated  in  man  has 
been  a  descent,  not  an  elevation.  This  we  can- 
not admit.  We  must  still  insist  that  the  life  of 
nature  is  inferior  to  the  life  of  man.  So  far, 
then,  we  have  nothing  to  account  for  the  enjoy- 
ment which  we  take  in  nature.  If  we  would  find 
a  sufficient  basis  for  this,  we  must  seek  some 
other  aspects  of  the  case  in  which  this  inferior- 
ity does  not  exist. 

We  find  one  element  of  that  which  we  demand 
in  the  fact  that  the  life  of  nature  is  the  all  of 
which  our  individual  lives  are  parts.  In  nature 
is  the  full  and  as  yet  undivided  life,  with  the  in- 
finite promise  of  which  the  most  perfect  individ- 
ual lives  are  only  the  partial  fulfilment.  The 
older  poets  loved  to  speak  of  the  earth  as  our 
mother.  Nature  is  indeed  our  mother.  All  that 
we  have  and  are  we  have  received  from  her. 
Thus  we  may  well  turn  to  her  not  only  with  love, 
but  with  reverence  also. 


Il6  POETRY. 

We  have  already  recognized  the  fact  that  the 
love  of  nature  has  reached  in  these  later  days  a 
conscious  strength  of  which  we  find  little  trace 
in  the  classic  poets.  That  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans loved  nature  there  can  be  no  doubt.  They 
recognized  her,  as  we  have  seen,  as  their  mother. 
The  glimpses  of  nature  that  we  meet  continually 
in  the  poems  of  Homer,  for  example,  show  an 
appreciation  of  natural  beauty.  The  peopling  of 
wood  and  stream  with  divinities  was  born  out  of 
this  love  of  nature.  We  find,  even  among  those 
most  full  of  the  modern  feeling  towards  the 
outer  world  some  who  look  back  with  longing  to 
the  conception  which  the  Greeks  had  of  a  living 
nature.  Lotze  seeks  a  view  of  nature  which 
may  supply  to  us  the  loss  of  this  elder  conscious- 
ness. At  the  same  time  it  is  true  that  there 
is  a  keener  and  more  conscious  delight  in  the 
beauty  of  nature  as  such,  in  these  later  days,  than, 
there  ever  was  before.  We  must  admit  that 
this  higher  view  exists  side  by  side  with  a  low, 
prosaic,  and  mechanical  view  of  nature  far  in- 
ferior to  that  of  the  ancients.  Wordsworth  rec- 
ognizes the  lower  view,  that  is  too  common  in 
these  days  of  mechanical  marvels,  in  his  indig- 
nant cry  :  — 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         l\f 

"Great  God  !  I  'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn, 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

Yet  Wordsworth  felt,  and  at  other  times  ex- 
pressed, a  love  of  nature  of  which,  whether  under 
the  form  of  the  dizzy  rapture  of  youth,  or  the 
calmer  though  not  less  intense  joy  of  manhood, 
the  "pagan"  could  not  have  conceived.  In  ancient 
poetry,  nature  figures  chiefly  as  a  background  for 
human  life.  The  Greeks  were  so  at  one  with 
nature  that  they  could  not  easily  conceive  either 
of  themselves  as  separate  from  it  or  of  it  as 
separate  from  themselves.  Thus  the  charms  of 
nature  present  themselves  more  often  as  mingled 
with  their  thoughts  and  contemplations  than  as 
objects  of  their  thoughts  and  contemplations. 
For  this  last  result,  that  is,  for  the  full  recogni- 
tion of  the  life  and  beauty  of  nature  apart  from 
any  relation  to  human  activity,  there  was  needed 
a  grand  convulsion  like  that  which  Christianity 
introduced.  Christianity  exalted  the  soul,  mak- 
ing it  the  only  object  of  care  and  interest.  The 
spiritual  life  detached  itself  wholly  from  the 
earthly  life.  It  found  in  itself  infinite  possibili- 


Il8  POETRY. 

ties  entirely  independent  of  the  world.  Thus  it 
came  to  despise  the  attractions  of  the  earth.  It 
found  in  nature  no  loveliness.  It  rather  had  of 
it  a  dread  and  horror.  This  chasm  between  the 
spiritual  and  the  natural  was  the  necessary  con- 
dition of  that  fuller  and  freer  communion  with 
nature  which  we  now  enjoy.  When  the  inten- 
sity of  that  first  strain  upon  the  spirit  had  spent 
itself,  or  rather  when  the  spirit  had  become  at 
last  so  secure  of  itself  that  it  no  longer  needed 
to  maintain  its  own  distinct  life  by  repelling  all 
the  elements  by  which  it  is  surrounded,  it  began 
to  look  about  itself,  and  to  make  for  itself  again 
a  home  upon  the  earth.  It  began  to  feel  itself 
again  at  one  with  nature.  But  this  nature  with 
which  it  felt  itself  at  one  was  no  longer  a  mere 
part  of  itself.  It  was  its  opposite.  The  two  — 
the  soul  within  and  the  nature  without  —  still 
stood  over  against  one  another :  but  the  antith- 
esis was  no  longer  one  of  opposition  ;  it  was  the 
necesary  condition  of  the  perception  of  the  real 
beauty  and  power  of  nature  ;  the  condition  of  the 
surrender  of  itself  by  the  spirit  to  nature  as  to 
some  thing  at  one  with  yet  distinct  from  itself. 
So  the  youth  and  the  maiden  grow  up  side  by 
side  in  a  life  in  which  the  occupations  and 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         119 

amusements  of  the  one  are  so  blended  with  those 
of  the  other  that  they  hardly  recognize  their  own 
distinctness.  When  they  meet  after  a  few  years 
of  separation,  what  strangeness  has  sprung  up 
between  them !  Yet  across  this  strangeness 
they  feel  their  old  community  of  life ;  and  a  love 
comes  out  of  the  new  relation  that  perhaps 
would  never  have  sprung  from  the  old. 

Thus  does  man  come  at  last  to  find  in  nature, 
not  merely  a  condition  of  his  life,  not  merely  a 
servant,  but  a  companion.  He  goes  to  her  with  all 
his  moods.  Nature  seems  to  take  them  upon 
herself.  She  smiles  or  weeps  as  man  is  glad  or 
sorrowful.  But  in  so  doing  she  translates  these 
moods  into  her  own  larger  life,  and  the  man  finds 
himself  calmed  or  comforted.  Thus  nature  is 
not  only  a  companion ;  she  is  the  companion 
which  is  the  wiser,  the  more  helpful,  of  the  two. 
She  is  less  the  mistress  than  the  wise  and  ten- 
der mother. 

We  may  gain  new  light  upon  this  matter  by 
glancing  at  the  similar  change  which  the  relation 
of  music  to  the  life  of  man  has  undergone.  In 
the  classic  period,  music  occupied  to  human  life 
a  relation  precisely  like  that  held  by  nature.  It 
was  chiefly  its  accompaniment.  Certain  styles 


120  POETRY. 

of  music  corresponded  to  certain  mental  moods 
or  temperaments.  These  moods  the  music  ex- 
pressed or  stimulated.  But  in  later  times  man 
finds  between  himself  and  nature  the  vast  chasm 
of  which  I  spoke.  It  would  seem  almost  as  if  he 
had  consciously  attempted  to  fill  this  chasm  by 
the  creation  of  a  new  world,  a  world  which 
should  be  more  like  that  of  the  external  nature 
than  any  other  human  product,  and  at  the  same 
time  more  akin  to  the  spiritual  world  than  any 
merely  natural  object.  Music  takes  into  itself, 
more  than  nature  can  do,  the  hopes,  the  fears, 
the  struggles,  the  aspirations  of  the  human  life; 
but  it  translates  these  into  a  language  as  uni- 
versal as  that  of  nature  herself.  Music  is,  as  I 
have  stated,  more  akin  to  the  spiritual  life  than 
nature  is,  because  it  is  actually  born  out  of  this 
life ;  but  yet  it  is  as  free  and  universal  as  nature 
itself.  Thus  does  it  bridge  over  the  chasm  be- 
tween the  two  worlds. 

We  have  seen  that  the  sense  of  beauty  in  na- 
ture results  from  the  conscious  or  unconscious 
recognition  of  the  community  of  life  between  the 
spirit  and  the  external  world.  This  more  or  less 
conscious  intuition,  or  this  sense  which  can 
hardly  be  called  an  intuition,  is  sufficient  to  pro- 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         121 

duce  a  keen  enjoyment  of  natural  beauty.  As  the 
spiritual  life  reaches  a  higher  development  this 
relation  assumes  a  higher  form  ;  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  natural  beauty  undergoes  a  correspond- 
ing change.  Byron  felt  the  beauty  of  nature 
as  keenly  as  Wordsworth  did  ;  none  the  less  did 
the  enjoyment  which  Wordsworth  found  in  na- 
ture possess  higher  elements  and  rise  to  a  calmer 
and  loftier  consciousness  than  that  of  Byron. 
The  religious  soul  that  is  also  a  lover  of  nature 
finds  in  the  life  that  fills  all  things  the  life  of 
God.  This  change  is  rather  of  degree  than  of 
kind.  The  simplest  sense  of  awe  and  exaltation 
in  the  presence  of  forest  and  sky  is  akin  to  the 
religious  sense  ;  but  yet  the  conscious  identifica- 
tion of  the  two  marks  an  advance  that  should  be 
recognized.  The  religious  enjoyment  of  nature 
does  not,  I  think,  consist  in  the  recognition  of 
contrivance  or  skill  in  the  various  relations  of 
one  part  of  an  organism  to  the  rest ;  or  of  one 
organism  to  another.  Such  a  recognition  may 
indeed  be  religious,  but  it  is  foreign  to  the. 
aesthetic  sense.  This  is  the  really  mechanical 
view  of  the  universe.  It  makes  of  it  a  handi- 
work, and  of  the  Creator  an  infinite  mechanician. 
The  higher  view,  or  at  least  the  more  aesthetic 


122  POETRY. 

view,  the  one  I  think  that  we  all  most  naturally 
take,  regards  the  universe  rather  as  the  manifes- 
tation of  the  divine  life  than  of  the  divine  skill. 
The  world  is  born  out  of  the  life  of  God  rather 
than  manufactured  by  Him.  It  is  the  child 
rather  than  the  creature,  begotten,  not  made.  At 
first  it  rests  unconscious  of  the  life  that  is  within 
it,  about  it,  and  above  it.  In  the  human  soul  it 
reaches  a  higher  consciousness.  This  recognizes 
its  Father's  love.  It  becomes  united  with  God 
in  a  conscious  union,  and  the  circle  is  complete. 
The  spirit  has  found  that  infinite  spirit  from 
which  it  came.  The  circle,  I  have  said,  is  com- 
plete. In  a  circle  any  one  point  may  be  reached 
from  any  other  by  movement  in  either  direction. 
Thus  the  soul  may  find  God  by  looking  back- 
ward and  feeling  itself  in  the  presence  of  the 
universal  life  that  springs  from  Him,  as  truly  as 
by  pressing  forward  to  a  more  conscious  and 
more  absolute  recognition  of  that  higher  life  and 
love  which  are  ever  leading  it  on  to  new  and 
gladder  heights. 

We  have  to  take  only  one  step  more  in  order 
to  complete  the  survey  of  the  relations  that  we 
are  considering.  The  lower  life  of  nature  being 
akin  to  the  highest  spiritual  life,  even  while  rest- 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         123 

ing  upon  a  lower  plane,  is  symbolical  of  that. 
The  last  element  that  meets  us  of  the  power 
which  the  natural  world  has  over  the  souls  that 
we  rightly  judge  to  be  so  high  above  it,  is  this 
prophecy  which  it  offers  of  the  highest.  Our 
narrow  dissevered  human  lives,  with  the  limita- 
tions, the  discords,  the  weariness  that  flow  from 
their  isolation,  lie  between  two  realms  of  peace. 
There  is  the  oneness  and  the  peace  of  the  lower 
nature ;  there  is  the  oneness  and  the  peace  of  the 
higher  life  of  which  all  perhaps  know  something, 
but  which  yet  in  its  complete  perfection  rises 
above  the  souls  that  have  climbed  the  farthest. 
It  is  the  isolation  that  comes  from  the  separate 
ends  which  each  is  seeking,  and  from  the  harsh 
analysis  of  the  understanding,  that  gives  its" 
prosaic  character  to  our  ordinary  life,  and  that 
severs  our  human  works  from  the  free  life  of 
nature.  It  is,  on  the  other  hand,  whatever  draws 
each  individual  out  of  himself,  makes  him  forget 
himself  and  live  in  other  lives,  or  in  the  ideal 
world  which  forms  the  absolute  life,  that  changes 
prose  to  poetry ;  that  brings  man  into  harmoni- 
ous relations  with  nature,  and  so  far  fulfils  the 
prophecy  which  nature  has  been  uttering  so  long. 
Men  have  had  a  perception  of  this  even  in  regard 


124  POETRY. 

to  the  simplest  and  most  individual  form  of  love. 
Love  is  recognized  as  the  romance  of  life.  The 
forest  path  has  lent  itself  naturally  for  its  meet- 
ings, and  the  flowers  have  seemed  to  find  their 
natural  use  in  becoming  its  language.  This  rela- 
tion between  the  beauty  of  nature  and  the  ten- 
derness of  love  results  from  the  fact  that  love  is 
self-surrender.  In  love  the  individual  finds  his 
truest  life  in  the  life  of  another.  Thus  the  nar- 
rowness of  the  individual  life  is  broken  through. 
Its  separateness  is  bridged  over.  It  is  no  longer 
prose,  but  poetry.  It  has  become  part  of  the 
larger  life  of  nature. 

If  we  turn  to  the  highest  aspect  of  the  case, 
we  see  more  clearly  than  before  why  the  tem- 
ple that  is  the  expression  of  the  soul's  most  per- 
fect abandonment  of  its  own  petty  limitations, 
should  be  so  in  harmony  with  the  grandest  prod- 
ucts of  the  outward  world.  Thus  in  these  most 
perfect  expressions  of  the  spiritual  conscious- 
ness are  blended  the  peace  of  nature,  and  that 
higher  peace  of  which  this  is  the  symbol  and 
the  prophecy. 

Our  task  is  thus  accomplished.  We  have  not 
asked  why  one  natural  object  is  fairer  than  an- 
other. We  have  simply  sought  to  justify,  in  the 


THE  POETIC  ASPECT  OF  NATURE.         12$ 

face  of  all  the  difficulties  that  beset  us,  the  love 
that  we  have  for  nature.  We  have  found  this 
justification  in  the  fact  of  the  more  or  less  con- 
scious recognition  of  the  freedom  of  the  life  of 
nature ;  in  that  of  the  identity  of  our  lives  with 
that  of  nature;  in  the  fulness  of  the  life  of 
nature ;  in  its  divinity ;  and  in  the  fact  that  it 
prefigures  a  perfection  which  we  have  not  yet 
attained,  I  think  that  it  is  from  such  causes 
that  we  all  love  nature,  each  in  his  degree ;  and 
referring  to  them,  we  may  cry  with  Wordsworth, 
whose  "  therefore  "  rested  upon  somewhat  similar 
conditions :  — 

"  Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains  ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive." 


THE  TRAGIC   FORCES   IN   LIFE  AND 
LITERATURE. 

MUCH  in  life  is  glad  and  beautiful,  and  thus 
seems  well  fitted  to  give  pleasure  when  presented 
in  the  form  of  poetry.  It  happens,  singularly 
enough,  however,  that  it  is  the  darker  and  sterner 
aspect  of  life  which  poetry  has  most  loved  to 
represent ;  or  at  least,  which  it  has  represented 
with  most  power.  It  is  in  Tragedy  that  poetic 
genius  has  found  its  most  perfect  expression.  In 
considering,  then,  life  in  its  relation  to  poetry,  we 
naturally  turn  especially  to  its  tragic  elements, 
and  consider  the  tragic  forces  as  they  manifest 
themselves  in  literature  and  in  life,  and  the  kind 
of  solution  which  poetry  offers  to  their  mystery. 

Our  life  consists  of  two  elements,  which,  if 
they  did  not  mingle  in  each  one  of  our  conscious 
acts,  we  should  think  to  be  absolutely  irreconcil- 
able. These  elements  in  abstract  language  are 
named  Necessity  and  Freedom.  In  theology  they 
take  form  as  law  and  gospel.  In  literature  they 


THE  TRAGIC  FORCES.  12? 

tend  to  express  themselves  respectively  in  trag- 
edy and  romance.  I  do  not  mean  to  draw  any 
absolute  line  between  the  two  classes  of  composi- 
tion last  named.  Some  romances  have  the  ele- 
ments of  tragedy ;  some  tragedies  are  romantic. 
The  tragedy  is,  however,  the  natural  and  more 
appropriate  as  well  as  more  common  expression 
of  those  dark  forces  that  underlie  our  life.  Ro- 
mance presents  a  solid  front  of  circumstances 
and  events.  The  tragedy  gives  only  characters. 
The  first  is  like  a  clock  with  a  painted  face,  over 
which  the  hands  are  seen  to  pass.  Tragedy  is 
like  a  clock  with  face  removed,  showing  us  the 
bare  combination  of  wheels  and  weights. 

If  we  look  more  definitely  at  the  nature  of 
tragedy,  the  first  thing  that  strikes  us  is  that 
in  tragedy  there  is  always  a  collision.  The  sec- 
ond is  that  this  is  a  collision  of  human  wills. 
The  tragedy  has  to  do  with  humanity.  In  this  it 
is  like  sculpture.  The  novelist,  like  the  painter, 
gives  us  backgrounds  and  surroundings.  The 
dramatic  poet,  like  the  sculptor,  gives  us  life. 
The  dramatist  may  help  out  his  work  by  foot- 
notes in  print,  or  by  scenery  on  the  stage.  But 
these  are  foreign  to  his  true  sphere.  In  tragedy, 
then,  we  have  the  human  spirit,  stripped  like  the 


128  POETRY. 

athlete,  contending  with  its  fellow.  The  powers 
of  the  outward  nature  may  not  interfere :  they 
may  form  a  background  of  terror  and  sublimity, 
as  in  Shakespeare's  "  Lear  ; "  or  of  beauty,  as  in 
his  "  As  You  Like  It ; "  but  this  is  all  that  they 
can  do.  The  gods  themselves,  if  they  take  part, 
must  appear,  like  the  gods  of  Homer,  in  the 
guise  and  the  speech  of  mortals.  This  is  so,  in 
part,  because  of  the  limitation  in  the  material 
which  the  dramatist  has  at  his  command.  But 
an  inward  necessity  answers  to  this  outward  one. 
The  tragedy  is  the  highest  form  of  objective  lit- 
erature, and  humanity  is  its  only  fitting  object. 
Man  is  left  to  fight  his  own  battle.  He  is  placed 
to  rule  the  world,  to  trample  on  nature,  or  to 
make  her  serve  his  will.  He  is  left  single-handed 
and  alone,  to  conquer  his  destiny  as  he  can. 
This  sublime  and  solitary  struggle  is  the  theme 
of  the  dramatist. 

I  have  said  that  the  tragic  collision  is  a  colli- 
sion of  wills.  If  we  use  the  word  "  will  "  to  mean 
simply  spiritual  force,  the  phrase  is  true.  But  as 
we  look  more  deeply  we  see  that,  though  the  will 
is  in  the  foreground,  and  thus  might  well  appear 
to  be  the  chief  actor,  it  is  in  reality  the  instru- 
ment of  a  power  behind  itself.  Did  Othello  will 


THE  TRAGIC  FORCES.  129 

to  doubt  the  only  being  that  he  loved,  and  then 
to  slay  her  ?  Did  Macbeth  will  to  murder  the 
king  ?  And,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  Hamlet 
will,  with  all  the  power  that  was  in  him,  to 
avenge  his  father  ?  The  collision  in  the  tragedy, 
then,  is  less  between  wills  than  between  the 
great  forces  which  act  through  the  wills.  The 
man  seems  to  be  self-directed  and  controlled,  but 
really  he  is  the  play  of  the  great  powers  that  are 
behind  him  and  working  through  him.  He  is  the 
bubble  on  the  stream.  You  look  at  it  and  cry, 
How  wildly  it  hurries  on,  how  gayly  it  dances, 
how  madly  it  whirls !  —  Nay,  it  is  a  bubble,  that 
is  all.  It  is  the  black  stream  below  that  drives  it 
and  whirls  it  along  its  way. 

To  see  more  clearly  this  deeper  phase  of  the 
tragic  element,  we  must  turn  to  the  tragedy  of 
Greece.  In  the  later  tragedy  other  elements 
mingle  with  this.  Here  we  shall  find  it  to. a 
large  extent  pure.  In  this,  these  vast  and  un- 
derlying forces  are  felt  more  strongly  than  else- 
where, and  may  be  exhibited  more  clearly.  The 
music  by  which  the  play  was  accompanied ;  the 
stature  of  the  performers,  vaster  than  human  ; 
the  voice  more  terrible  than  human  ;  the  great 
unchanging  face,  fixed  as  the  marble  face  of 


130  POETRY. 

Jove,  fixed  in  that  expression  which  was  the  rul- 
ing one  of  the  part ;  the  strange  choral  song 
which  hovered  over  all,  translating  from  the  indi- 
vidual to  the  universal,  —  all  of  these  served  to 
make  the  individual  the  fitting  manifestation  of 
those  great  forces  which  acted  through  him. 
And  thus  we  find  that  the  collision  in  the  most 
typical  Grecian  tragedy  is  the  collision  of  the 
great  underlying  forces  of  society  and  of  life. 
A  common  form  of  this  collision  is  that  of  the 
family  and  of  the  state.  Such  is  all  that  tragic 
story  of  Agamemnon,  Clytemnestra,  and  Orestes. 
Agamemnon,  at  the  bidding  of  the  oracle,  sacri- 
ficed his  daughter  to  his  country.  This  must  be 
the  offering,  the  only  offering,  that  should  secure 
the  triumph  of  the  Grecian  arms.  The  sacrifice 
is  made  and  accepted.  Troy  falls,  the  victor 
returns  in  triumph.  But  is  that  the  end  ?  He 
had  yielded  to  the  power  of  country,  but  he  had 
trampled  on  that  of  family  and  of  home.  He  had 
sacrificed  everything  to  his  country.  Very  well ; 
he  had  his  reward  ;  he  returned  in  triumph  to 
his  home,  to  that  home  whose  dearest  laws  he 
had  despised,  whose  dearest  rights  he  had  vio- 
lated, that  home  which  he  sacrificed  to  his  coun- 

* 

try :  shall  he  triumph  there  also  ?     These  laws 


THE  TRAGIC  FORCES.  131 

of  family,  these  forces  of  home,  demand  retri- 
bution for  their  despised  majesty.  They  act 
through  Clytemnestra.  No  harsh  and  hardened 
soul  was  hers,  or,  if  harsh  and  hardened,  it  was 
made  so  by  that  power  which  had  torn  its  true 
life  away.  It  was  fierce,  but  it  was  the  fierceness 
of  the  lion-mother  that  has  seen  her  whelps 
hewn  to  pieces  in  her  presence.  Hear  her  wail, 
hear  her  tender  reproaches,  hear  her  maintaining 
by  her  mother's  agony  the  rights  of  a  mother's 
love,  and  you  will  see  the  power  that  slew  the 
returning  king,  no  longer  owned  as  husband,  at 
the  bath.  But  she  in  her  turn  had  become  the 
offender.  The  family  was  right,  perhaps,  in 
avenging  itself  ;  but  it  sinned  against  the  state 
in  that  it  slew  the  king.  Orestes,  the  prince, 
must  avenge  his  father's  death.  His  hands  be- 
come stained  with  his  mother's  blood.  The 
family  bond  knows  no  more  terrible  crime  than 
that.  He  must  atone  for  it.  He  is  haunted  by 
the  furies  of  his  mother.  Thus  the  pendulum 
might  swing  forever  to  and  fro  without  rest. 
Each  atonement  produces  new  sacrilege,  until  a 
reconciliation  is  effected  by  the  promise  of  equal 
honor  to  the  Eumenides  representing  the  family 
rights,  and  Apollo  representing  the  regal  dig- 
nity. 


132  POETRY. 

Another  illustration  of  the  collision  between 
the  forces  of  state  and  family  may  be  found  in 
the  "Antigone."  The  king  forbade  Antigone  to 
perform  the  funeral  rites  of  her  brother.  The 
state  thus  violates  the  sanctity  of  the  family, 
which  demands  nothing  more  absolutely  than 
funeral  honors  to  the  departed.  Antigone  is 
true  to  this  sanctity,  and  pays  the  sad  rites  to 
her  brother.  The  family  acts  through  her,  but 
in  its  turn  it  defies  the  state.  The  king  re- 
quires her  to  make  atonement  by  her  death. 
The  state  thus  tramples  on  the  family.  Her 
lover,  the  king's  son,  kills  himself  for  grief,  and 
the  family  is  avenged.  While  neither  party  is 
right  from  the  other's  standpoint,  neither  is 
wrong  from  its  own.  Ancient  tragedy  had 
something  nobler  and  better  to  do  than  to  gloat 
over  pictures  of  mere  crime.  These  powers  act 
to  a  great  extent  unconsciously,  blindly.  This 
blindness  is  brought  out  more  distinctly  in  the 
story  of  CEdipus.  He  kills  his  father,  not  know- 
ing who  it  is ;  he  marries  his  mother  in  the 
same  blindness.  None  the  less  has  he  offended 
against  family  and  state.  None  the  less  must  he 
pay  the  penalty.  We  can  see  more  clearly  how 
these  tragedies  represent  the  working  of  the 


THE  TRAGIC  FORCES.  133 

great  forces  which  underlie  life,  if  we  may  assume 
that  CEdipus  originally  represented  the  sun- god. 
As  CEdipus  slew  his  father  unwittingly,  so  the 
sun,  by  its  very  necessity,  destroys  the  darkness 
from  which  it  proceeded.  It  sinks  in  the  even- 
ing into  the  arms  of  the  purple  heaven  out  of 
whose  bosom  it  had  sprung  in  the  morning ;  and 
thereupon  it  falls  into  darkness,  as  CEdipus  was 
plunged  into  his  night  of  blindness. 

If  from  this  point  of  view  we  look  at  our  mod- 
ern tragedy,  we  shall  have  a  deeper  insight  than 
we  could  have  otherwise  gained.  The  difference 
between  the  modern  and  the  ancient  is  that  in 
modern  tragedy  it  is  for  the  most  part  a  nature 
or  a  passion  that  rules  and  blinds.  Othello  and 
Lear  were  as  blind  as  CEdipus,  and  as  little  self- 
directed.  Lear  would  have  the  forms  of  love, 
and  could  not  recognize  it  without  these  forms. 
Cordelia  would  have  the  reality  without  the 
forms.  Hence  the  collision  and  the  destruction 
of  both.  The  tragic  character  sees  only  what 
is  right  before  him  on  his  track.  He  is  like  a 
horse  with  blinders  on  each  side.  His  course  is 
marked  out  from  the  beginning.  His  personal- 
ity has  a  certain  necessary  evolution.  Whatever 
the  inner  law  of  his  being  is,  he  is  at  the  mercy 
of  that. 


134  POETRY. 

Generalizing  what  has  been  said,  it  will  appear 
that  the  three  elements  which  underlie  the  tragic 
collision  are  necessity,  blindness,  retribution, —  a 
necessity  which  is  that  of  the  underlying  forces 
of  life,  of  the  nature  itself ;  a  blindness  in  that 
this  necessity  fancies  itself  free  and  choosing  for 
itself ;  a  retribution  which  makes  this  blindness 
accountable  for  whatever  it  may  do ;  a  retribu- 
tion which  is  not  necessarily  the  punishment  of 
actual  sin,  but  which  may  be  the  atonement  that 
is  due  to  any  violated  right  of  any  sphere  or 
plane  of  life;  a  retribution  which  is  exacted  from 
the  higher  to  the  lower,  no  less  than  from  the 
lower  to  the  higher. 

We  have  considered  the  tragic  collision  as 
one  between  different  personalities,  representing 
the  different  forces  of  life.  We  have  to  add  to 
this  the  conception  of  a  collision  both  elements 
of  which  represent  the  same  character.  This 
may  be  illustrated  by  the  case  in  which  the  col- 
lision is  between  a  man's  past  and  his  present ; 
when  what  he  would  accomplish  in  the  present 
is  confronted  and  overborne  by  what  he  has  ac- 
complished in  the  past.  This  is  an  element  not 
infrequent  in  tragedy,  but  it  is  nowhere  pre- 
sented with  greater  dramatic  force  and  with 


THE  TRA  GIC  FORCES.  1 3  5 

more  terrible  reality  than  in  the  works  of  Victor 
Hugo.  We  must  not  let  his  extravagances 
blind  us  to  the  dark  magnificence  which  un- 
derlies them.  In  the  plays  of  Victor  Hugo  we 
have  the  tragic  character  vainly  attempting  to 
free  himself  from  the  tragic  fatality  which  pur- 
sues him.  This  runs  through  his  plays  like 
some  grand  movement  which  appears  ever  under 
new  forms  in  some  great  musical  composition. 
I  will  give  one  example.  Marion  de  Lorme  had 
lived  a  life  of  shame.  A  pure  attachment 
sprang  up  between  herself  and  a  youth  who 
knew  nothing  of  her  past  history.  She  was  to 
him  simply  Marie,  the  ideal  of  womanly  purity. 
She  began  a  new  life,  and  turned  her  back  upon 
the  past.  But  the  past  is  wrongly  named  :  we 
carry  it  into  all  the  concerns  of  life  ;  it  follows 
us  as  our  shadows  do  when  we  walk  towards  the 
sun.  Marie  was  still  Marion,  ignore  it  as  she 
might.  The  black  and  terrible  past  was  still 
her  past,  or  rather  it  was  a  part  of  her  present. 
She  followed  her  lover  to  the  prison  into  which 
he  was  cast  under  sentence  of  death  for  some 
slight  offence,  cheering  and  strengthening  him 
by  her  love.  But  at  last  the  fearful  secret  broke 
upon  him.  Marie,  his  pure  ideal,  was  Marion, 


1 36  POETRY. 

the  object  of  his  loathing.  He  repulses  her 
tenderness.  Marion  provides  a  way  for  him  to 
escape,  and  in  an  agony  of  supplication  urges 
him  to  flee.  He  resists  her  entreaties.  He 
turns  coldly  from  her.  But  when  the  hour  of 
possible  escape  has  passed,  and  the  execution- 
ers have  come  to  end  his  life,  he  relents.  He 
presses  her  to  his  heart,  and  breathes  words 
of  love,  of  reconciliation  and  forgiveness.  But 
when  she  laments  their  separation,  and  speaks 
of  the  happiness  they  might  have  shared,  the 
dark  necessity  unveils  itself  again.  He  dashes  to 
pieces  her  airy  castle.  He  makes  her  understand 
that,  though  he  can  forgive,  he  cannot  forget  the 
past ;  that  a  free  and  trusting  love  could  never 
have  been  theirs.  In  the  plays  of  Victor  Hugo 
the  tragic  element  reaches  its  terrible  climax. 
The  tragic  character  struggles  with  the  destiny 
he  has  drawn  upon  himself ;  struggles  up  to  a 
higher  plane,  but  even  from  that  is  dragged 
back,  and  made  to  feel  that  the  past  still  lives 
in  him. 

These  three  parts  of  the  tragic  elements,  ne- 
cessity, blindness,  and  retribution,  form  the  great 
woof  of  life.  Tragedy  did  not  invent  them  ;  it 
found  them.  I  will  give  two  or  three  historical 


THE  TRAGIC  FORCES.  137 

illustrations  of  this  tragic  element,  and  will  then 
seek  for  it  in  our  daily  life.  The  first  that  I  will 
mention  is  that  of  Socrates  in  his  relation  to  the 
Athenian  state,  —  a  relation  which  has  been 
pointed  out  and  perhaps  exaggerated  by  Hegel.1 
Socrates  represented  the  great  principle  of  sub- 
jectivity. He  represented  the  higher  law.  His 
private  daimon  he  would  trust  as  he  trusted  the 
divine  oracles.  Thus  the  principle  of  Socrates 
was  that  of  subjectivity.  The  principle  of  the 
Grecian  state,  whose  ideal  reaches  its  climax  in 
the  republic  of  Plato,  was  objectivity.  The  indi- 
vidual was  swallowed  up  in  the  state ;  law  and 
morality  were  the  same ;  there  was  no  higher 
law.  The  collision  was  inevitable.  This  princi- 
ple of  subjectivity  was  the  wedge  which  was  to 
split  open  the  ancient  state.  The  state  divined 
the  presence  of  that  power  which  was  to  be 
its  destruction.  The  comedian  Aristophanes 
brought  all  the  power  of  his  ridicule  to  bear 
upon  it.  The  state  put  the  philosopher  to  death 
as  a  corrupter  of  youth.  The  comedian  and  the 
state  were  right.  The  state  can  recognize  noth- 
ing higher  than  itself,  and  here  was  a  power  that 

1  To  whom  also  I  am  indebted  for  some  of  the  results  of  the 
preceding  analysis. 


138  POETRY. 

was  to  destroy  it.  Socrates  was  right  from  the 
higher  plane  on  which  he  stood.  The  state, 
urged  on  by  the  necessity  of  its  own  being,  blind 
to  the  glory  of  the  new  life,  put  him  to  death. 
Socrates  must  by  his  death  make  atonement  to 
the  injured  rights  even  of  the  lower  sphere. 

In  the  story  of  Jesus  we  have  the  tragedy  of 
the  world.  He  knew  himself  to  be  the  consum- 
mation of  Judaism  and  its  fulfilment,  and  thus 
claimed  the  right  to  be  its  Christ.  The  Jews 
saw  that  this  claim,  if  allowed,  would  destroy 
Judaism.  The  destruction  was  to  the  Jew  neces- 
sarily the  most  terrible  thing  that  could  occur. 
The  Jew,  being  a  Jew,  could  see  nothing  higher 
than  Judaism.  For  the  higher  vision  he  must  re- 
ceive a  higher  life  ;  his  nature  must  be  changed  ; 
he  must  be  born  again,  must  cease  to  be  a  Jew. 
Thus  came  the  world's  tragedy.  The  collision 
was  inevitable.  Jesus  died  amid  the  darkness  of 
nature.  But  the  Jew  had  invaded  a  higher  prin- 
ciple, a  higher  life,  than  he  dreamed  of.  Jesus 
atoned  to  Judaism  with  his  life;  Judaism  made 
atonement  by  its  terrible  destruction.  Judaism 
struck  the  blow  as  blindly  as  CEdipus  brought 
upon  himself  the  guilt  of  parricide.  It  was  a 
tragic  blindness.  "  Had  they  known,"  cried  the 


THE  TRAGIC  FORCES.  139 

apostle,  "  they  would  not  have  crucified  the  Lord 
of  Glory."  It  brought  its  tragic  retribution  upon 
itself  with  equal  blindness.  The  death  of  Jesus 
was  the  end  of  Judaism,  so  far  as  its  historic 
worth  and  meaning  are  concerned.  The  form 
remained,  but  the  best  life  had  passed  out  of  it. 
"  I,  through  the  law,"  cried  the  apostle,  "  am 
dead  unto  the  law.  I  am  crucified  with  Christ." 
The  higher  and  the  lower  met.  Each  invaded 
the  realm  of  the  other ;  each  made  atonement  to 
the  other,  but  the  higher  conquered  even  by  its 
defeat. 

If  we  turn  from  the  ancient  world  to  the  mod- 
ern, we  need  not  look  abroad  for  examples  of 
this  tragic  collision.  Our  own  nation  has  not 
long  ago  passed  through  the  tragedy  of  its  his- 
tory. As  it  had  sinned  more  deeply  than  others, 
because  in  the  presence  of  greater  light,  so  was 
its  penalty  more  terrible.  Liberty  and  slavery, 
united  in  a  single  nation,  must  meet  in  a  life  and 
death  struggle. 

All  the  collisions  between  class  and  class,  that 
so  mark  the  present,  are  only  instances  of  the 
workings  of  the  tragic  elements  of  life.  On 
these,  however,  we  may  not  dwell,  but  must 
hasten  to  illustrate,  in  a  more  general  way,  the 


I4O  POETRY. 

forms  which  this  tragic  collision  assumes  in  the 
relations  of  our  daily  life. 

The  first  that  I  will  name  is  the  one  that 
stands  lowest  in  the  scale,  —  one,  indeed,  that 
we  might  hesitate  to  place  in  the  list.  I  mean 
the  struggle  between  the  conscious  life  of  man 
and  the  blind  forces  of  nature.  The  hesitation 
in  regard  to  calling  this  collision  a  tragic  one 
arises  from  the  fact  that  it  has  properly  no  place 
in  the  tragedy  of  literature.  Here  it  could  be 
represented  only  indirectly,  and  this  under  the 
form  of  chance  occurrences,  working  out  good  or 
evil,  constituting  thus  one  element  of  the  ro- 
mance of  life.  In  actual  life,  however,  it  is  a 
constant  factor.  Chances  may  occur,  but  the 
warfare  with  nature  is  more  fundamental  and 
wide-reaching  than  all  chances.  For  everything 
that  -may  be  won  from  her,  nature  exacts  repri- 
sals ;  yet  even  by  her  victory  she  is  conquered. 
So  soon  as  men  learn  to  obey  her,  they  command 
her.  Thus  does  the  strife  continue  with  varying 
fortune  through  each  individual  life,  until  at  last, 
to  all  outward  seeming,  the  forces  of  nature  gain 
a  final  triumph,  and  remain  possessors  of  the  field. 

A  higher  form  of  the  tragic  collision,  and  one 
that  more  strictly  deserves  the  name,  results 


THE  TRA  GIC  FORCES.  1 4 1 

from  the  fact  that  the  individual  seeks  to  exist 
for  himself  and  on  his  own  account.  He  has  his 
will  and  his  plans.  But  this  will  and  these  plans 
the  universe  does  not  respect.  Other  men  have 
their  wills  and  their  plans  ;  the  course  of  history 
moves  along  its  appointed  way ;  the  individual 
must  either  yield  or  struggle  vainly. 

The  truest  and  highest  form  of  the  collision, 
however,  springs  from  the  fact  that  every  man  is 
partial.  Every  man  is  a  representative  man,  and 
represents  a  part  and  not  the  whole.  Every 
man  is  to  a  large  extent  the  result  of  a  certain 
ancestry,  a  certain  culture,  a  certain  quality  of 
mind,  a  certain  sphere  of  life,  and  a  certain  habit 
of  thought.  These  are  the  forces  that  act 
through  him.  His  history  is  largely  the  evolu- 
tion of  these.  These  limit  his  horizon.  As  I 
said  of  the  tragic  hero,  he  is  like  a  horse  with 
blinders  on  either  side.  He  sees  straight  before 
him,  that  is  all.  Being  thus  partial  and  blind, 
he  must  have  collisions,  tragic  collisions,  with 
other  forces,  and  for  every  such  invasion  he  must 
make  atonement,  must  suffer  retribution.  This 
is  what  may  be  called,  in  the  strictest  meaning 
of  the  word,  the  tragic  element  of  life.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  fact  or  the  dream  of  natures  so 


142  POETRY. 

perfectly  attuned  to  one  another  that  they  melt 
into  an  absolute  harmony  makes  up  the  highest 
form  of  the  romance  of  life. 

It  must  here  be  noticed  that  all  the  tragic 
forces  that  underlie  our  life  are  good.  There  is 
in  all  nature  no  power  of  evil.  Thus  the  animal, 
the  sensual  forces,  are  good.  The  beast  is 
moved  by  good  and  pure  forces.  But  if  a  man 
who  might  live  in  a  higher  sphere  suffers  himself 
to  fall  into  a  lower,  suffers  these  lower  forces  to 
work  through  him,  so  much  the  worse  for  the 
man.  He  must  surfer  the  retribution.  The 
forces  which  manifest  themselves  in  disease  are 
as  natural  and  healthy  as  those  of  health  itself. 
But  the  body  that  has  fallen  into  their  sphere 
must  pay  the  penalty.  The  forces  of  decay,  of 
corruption,  of  rottenness,  are  as  clean  and  pure 
as  those  of  life ;  only  they  are  lower  forces,  and 
woe  to  the  body  that  sinks  down  into  their  realm. 
Guilt  is  the  suffering  of  lower  forces  to  act  through 
a  medium  fitted  for  the  higher.  The  punish- 
ment of  guilt  is  the  retribution  demanded  by  the 
higher.  But  the  lower,  if  set  at  naught,  claims 
a  retribution  no  less.  The  lower  sphere,  scorned 
and  defied,  demands  atonement,  satisfaction,  no 
less  than  the  higher.  The'  only  difference  is  that 
its  penalties  are  lower. 


THE  TRAGIC  FORCES.  143 

I  might  illustrate  what  has  been  said  by  refer- 
ence to  the  diverse  qualities  of  mind.  Thus  there 
are  men  of  the  reason,  and  men  of  understand- 
ing. The  understanding  cannot  comprehend  the 
reason.  The  understanding  sees  differences,  the 
reason  sees  identity.  The  understanding  sep- 
arates, the  reason  binds.  The  understanding 
makes  its  mock  of  the  reason.  It  suffers  the 
penalty  in  its  own  coldness  and  blindness  and 
emptiness  and  loneliness.  The  reason  despises 
the  mere  understanding.  It  bears  also  a  penalty. 
It  has  to  bear  the  mockery  of  the  understanding. 
It  is  far  less  a  working  power  in  the  world.  It  is 
not  so  good  a  hater,  not  so  good  a  fighter,  and 
thus  finds  itself  at  disadvantage  in  its  own  day 
and  generation.  We  find  further  illustrations  in 
the  different  natures  that  are  thrown  together  in 
life,  —  so  different  that  they  cannot  understand 
one  another,  and  are  continually  in  some  way  or 
other  clashing  together.  Thus  there  are  the 
brother  and  sister  in  that  wonderful  story,  "  The 
Mill  on  the  Floss."  Her  nature  was  passionate  ; 
his,  cold  and  upright.  They  could  not  under- 
stand one  another.  Their  love  became  their 
grief.  He  was  harsh,  and  her  heart  was  almost 
broken,  yet  neither  was  conscious  of  fault  or 


144  POETRY. 

error.  Who  can  say  why  it  is  that  between  per- 
sons thrown  together  most  closely  in  the  world, 
brothers  perhaps,  brought  up  in  the  same  family, 
husband  and  wife  set  apart  for  one  another  for 
a  lifetime,  there  should  be  such  differences  ? 
One  impulsive  and  one  cold,  one  gay  and  one 
quiet,  one  generous  and  one  niggardly,  one  radi- 
cal and  one  conservative,  they  cannot  understand 
one  another.  Neither  can  see  how  he  is  to 
blame,  but  somehow  life  has  become  a  discord 
instead  of  a  harmony.  It  is  darkened  by  no 
crime,  but  somehow  it  has  become  a  tragedy 
instead  of  a  romance.  This  form  of  the  tragic 
relation  is  prominent  in  the  dramas  of  Robert 
Browning.  An  example  may  be  found  in  his 
"  Luria,"  where  the  warm  and  passionate  nature 
of  the  East  is  brought  into  contrast  with  the  cold 
reason  of  the  West. 

That  other  aspect  of  the  tragic  collision,  in 
which  the  individual  is  confronted  and  overborne 
by  his  own  past,  finds  abundant  illustration  in 
life.  We  set  an  instrumentality  at  work,  but  we 
do  not  know  what  it  will  bring  about.  So  soon 
as  an  influence  has  gone  out  from  us,  we  have  no 
more  control  over  it.  It  is  no  longer  our  activity. 
It  is  the  great  powers  of  nature  that  we  have  set 


THE    TRAGIC  FORCES.  145 

in  motion.  We  cannot  stop  them,  nor  guide 
them.  They  owe  us  no  subjection.  They  dis- 
own us.  If  we  stand  in  their  way  they  will  crush 
us  as  soon  as  another.  Inventors,  discoverers, 
founders,  are  not  in  general  those  who  profit  by 
their  labors.  The  power  has  gone  out  from 
them,  and  will  do  the  bidding  of  him  who  can 
manage  it  the  best.  Fiction  and  history  are  full 
of  illustrations  of  this  fact.  We  read  of  the  ser- 
vant of  the  magician  who  set  the  broomstick  to 
draw  water.  He  could  set  it  in  motion,  but  he 
knew  no  power  on  earth  to  stop  it,  and  the  house 
was  deluged.  We  read  that  Ninus,  king  of  As- 
syria, in  a  moment  of  sport,  set  the  crown  on  the 
head  of  his  wife  Semiramis.  Her  first  and  in- 
stant command  was,  "Take  this  Ninus  and  put 
him  to  death."  Rouget  de  Lisle  composed  the 
"Marseilles  Hymn."  He  named  it  "An  Offer- 
ing to  Liberty."  Liberty,  in  the  person  of  the 
populace,  accepted  the  offering  and  thrived  upon 
it,  and  grew  wild  and  reckless  and  terrible. 
Rouget  de  Lisle  trembled  and  fled  before  it. 
Liberty,  in  the  shape  of  the  same  -populace,  pur- 
sued him  still  singing,  and  as  he  fled  the  moun- 
tain passes  echoed  with  the  notes  of  his  own 
music. 


146  POETRY. 

I  have  thus  presented  in  scattered  points  and 
imperfect  outlines  the  tragic  elements  of  life. 
The  tragic  collision  is  the  result  of  no  accident. 
The  universal  must  by  its  very  nature  take  shape 
in  that  which  is  partial,  and  the  partial  is  always 
antagonistic.  The  universal  makes  progress 
only  by  division  and  by  contention.  The  state 
takes  form  in  its  parties,  the  church  in  its  sects, 
philosophy  in  its  schools.  The  infinite  takes 
form  in  the  finite.  These  finite  forms  clash 
against  one  another,  perhaps  even  destroy  one 
another,  and  are  together  swallowed  up  by  the 
infinite,  which  presses  on  to  clothe  itself  in 
higher  forms.  The  great  truth  is  that  it  is  not 
man,  but  these  great  tragic  forces  which  control 
the  world.  "  Man  is  free,  humanity  is  bound.  "- 

"  There  's  a  Divinity  that,  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough  hew  them  how  we  will." 

I  do  not  say  that  man  may  not  hasten  or  hin- 
der. He  can  neither  prevent  nor  determine.  It 
is  much  for  the  man  what  kind  of  forces  he  suf- 
fers to  work  through  him.  It  is  much  for  the 
drop  whether  it  is  borne  on  by  the  broad  sweep 
of  the  current,  or  eddies  off  into  some  muddy 
pool.  To  the  man  it  is  much,  but  these  forces 
will  sooner  or  later  accomplish  their  result 


THE    TRAGIC  FORCES.  147 

The  tragedy,  as  a  work  of  art,  demands  repose 
as  well  as  struggle.  If  there  is  collision,  there 
must  be  at  least  some  hint  of  the  solution  of  the 
collision.  The  philosophic  view  at  which  I  have 
just  hinted  is  too  vast  for  its  limits.  Moreover, 
the  individual  is  precious  to  it,  and  the  repose 
which  broods  over  all  must  include  each  individ- 
ual in  its  embrace.  We  have  considered  the 
strife  ;  we  must,  to  complete  the  survey,  glance 
at  the  repose  in  which  it  is  swallowed  up. 

The  most  obvious  form  of  this  repose  is  that 
of  success.  The  hero  conquers  in  the  strife. 
The  happiness  for  which  he  longs  is  his.  But 
this  lacks  the  element  of  necessity,  and  has  no 
certainty  of  permanence.  Besides,  it  is  not 
wholly  satisfactory.  No  bauble  of  worldly  suc- 
cess can  repay  the  struggles  and  anguish  of  the 
soul.  A  deeper  form  of  repose  tragedy  has 
sought  and  found.  It  is  that  of  death.  This  is 
so  freely  used  by  tragedy  that  the  word  "  trag- 
edy "  has  come  to  involve  the  idea  of  death. 
What  is  tragic  is  supposed  to  be  deadly.  Death 
is  supposed  to  be  the  culmination  of  the  horror, 
instead  of,  as  it  is  so  often,  the  bringer  of  the 
peace.  We  cannot  understand  the  nature  of 
tragedy  till  we  understand  the  part  that  death 
plays  in  it. 


148  POETRY. 

The  repose  which  results  from  happiness  and 
success  lacks  necessity  and  permanence,  and 
thus  fails  to  satisfy  our  highest  aesthetic  needs. 
That  of  death  is  free  from  this  lack.  It  is  no 
accident  which  might  or  might  not  have  oc- 
curred. It  is  as  certain  as  fate  itself,  and  awaits 
the  sufferer  after  the  most  terrible  sorrow.  And 
there  is  no  fear  lest  it  be  merely  transitory. 
Fortune  may  smile  or  frown,  friends  may  grow 
weary  of  remembering,  estates  may  dwindle  into 
nothingness,  empires  may  be  overthrown,  but 
this  lofty  rest  remains  unbroken  :  — 

"  O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ; 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ; 
O  delved  gold  the  wailers  heap ; 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall,  — 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

All  at  once  there  is  a  strange  power  at  work, 
a  strange  presence.  We  are  in  contact  with 
the  infinities  and  the  eternities.  A  little  stroke 
of  the  dagger,  a  little  draught  of  the  poison,  and 
there  comes  down  this  infinite  peace,  this  eternal 
silence,  in  the  presence  of  which  the  will  is 
dwarfed,  and  all  caprice  seems  impertinent,  and 
the  loftiest  and  the  humblest  are  alike.  All  the 
events  of  life  which  had  preceded,  which  were 


THE   TRAGIC  FORCES.  149 

before  fleeting  and  full  of  change,  become  now 
fixed,  and  statuesque,  and  partake  of  the  dignity 
of  their  close.  But,  though  the  events  gain  in 
grandeur,  the  evil  of  them  is  almost  forgotte'n. 
For  how  contemptible  appear  all  the  weariness 
and  care  of  life  in  comparison  with  that  lofty  re- 
pose which  is  inevitably  to  succeed  them  !  Our 
moral  sense  is  satisfied,  or  at  least  cannot  mur- 
mur. There  is  enough  awe  and  mystery  in  it  to 
satisfy  our  feeling  of  justice  towards  the  guilty; 
enough  peace  to  console  us  for  the  sorrows  of 
the  good.  We  do  not  need  that  it  should  be 
made  terrible,  as  in  the  "Faustus"of  Marlow,  by 
the  presence  of  demons ;  nor  hallowed,  as  in  that 
of  Goethe's  Margaret,  by  the  voice  from  heaven 
crying,  "1st  gerettet"  "  Is  saved  !  "  We  do  not 
need  the  celestial  fruits  and  flowers  which  in  one 
of  the  early  dramas  the  virgin  martyr  plucks  and 
sends  back  as  a  token  to  her  murderers.  We 
have  a  feeling  of  awe  in  the  one  case,  and  of 
peace  in  the  other,  which  we  cannot  avoid,  and 
which  satisfies  all  our  dramatic  need. 

Let  us  observe  more  minutely  the  operation 
of  this  principle  in  a  single  case,  that  of  Shake- 
speare's Lear.  After  reading  Charles  Lamb's 
essay  on  the  subject,  no  one  can  doubt  that  the 


150  POETRY. 

death  of  Lear  was,  artistically  speaking,  inevi- 
table. After  his  sorrows  and  losses,  his  sceptre 
would  have  been  a  bauble,  and  his  life  full  of  the 
ghosts  of  dead  hopes.  But  an  examination  will 
show  that  the  death  of  Cordelia  was  equally  re- 
quired by  Lear.  The  misapprehension  in  the 
play,  which  would  change  at  least  this  part  of  the 
result,  has  arisen  undoubtedly  from  the  notion 
that  the  suffering  of  Lear  consisted  in  his  ex- 
posure and  in  the  loss  of  his  kingdom,  and  that 
poetic  justice  is  satisfied  by  retufning  these  to 
him  again.  The  longing  of  Lear,  however,  is  for 
love.  It  is  the  father's  heart  yearning  for  an 
answer  of  tenderness  ;  and  the  struggle  and  plot 
of  the  play  are  in  some  measure  solved  when  he 
holds  the  loving  Cordelia  to  his  bosom.  But 
there  were  three  daughters.  Where  are  the  two  ? 
He  loved  them  all  with  equal  tenderness  :  how 
shall  the  love  of  Cordelia  alone  make  up  the  de- 
ficiency and  fill  the  great  void  of  his  heart  ?  It 
must  be  exhibited  in  such  a  magnified  and  ex- 
alted form  that  this  one  love  shall  take  the  place 
of  all.  This  could  only  be  done  by  the  dignifying 
and  softening  power  of  death.  She  had  died  full 
of  love  to  him,  and  died  a  martyr  to  that  love. 
Love  for  one  could  not  fill  his  heart :  a  loving 


THE    TRAGIC  FORCES.  151 

sorrow  could.  His  spirit  had  no  longer  the  elas- 
ticity of  youth ;  he  could  not  pass  at  once  from 
such  terrible  agony  to  joy.  A  glad  love  he  could 
never  feel  again.  A  tender  sorrow  was  the  near- 
est approach  to  happiness  that  remained  to  him, 
and  that  was  granted  him  to  the  full.  A  horri- 
ble tragedy  was  yet  to  be  enacted  about  him. 
His  father's  heart  must  be  filled  with  horror  at 
the  terrible  punishment  which  was  to  fall  upon 
his  two  daughters,  unnatural  though  they  were. 
Yet  this  must  take  place  before  his  death ;  for 
this  alone  could  fitly  close  the  play.  The  death 
of  Cordelia  supplied  what  was  wanting  here  also. 
He  is  so  occupied  with  tender  grief  that  he  does 
not  heed  the  horrors  that  are  going  on  about 
him.  He  could  gain  nothing  more  from  life  :  — 

"  He  hates  him 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer." 

But  what  most  gentle  messenger  should  sum- 
mon him  ?  Does  it  not  seem  of  all  most  fitting 
that  he,  who  has  gone  through  life  sorrowing  for 
the  want  of  love,  should  at  last  die  from  the  sur- 
charged fulness  of  a  loving  heart  ? 

But  after  all,  death  is  the  symbol  of  the  real 
solution  of  the  tragic  conflict,  and  thus  of  the 


152  POETRY. 

highest  repose,  rather  than  the  reality.  This 
reality  must  be  found  in  the  spirit  itself.  Upon 
this  aspect  of  our  subject  I  can,  in  conclusion, 
barely  touch ;  for  this  true  solution,  in  its  high- 
est forms,  lies  beyond  that  which  is  peculiar  to 
tragedy.  I  will  illustrate  what  I  mean  by  two 
examples.  I  have  referred  to  the  truly  tragic 
relation  of  the  brother  and  sister  in  "  The  Mill 
on  the  Floss."  The  solution  is  found  in  that  last 
moment  of  insight  when  their  spirits  become 
united  in  the  tenderest  love.  The  collision  of 
their  natures  had  passed ;  love  had  destroyed  it. 
The  tragic  blindness  was  gone ;  for  love  had  en- 
lightened them. 

A  similar  solution  is  found  in  the"Luria"of 
Browning,  to  which  I  have  already  referred. 
He,  also,  before  his  death,  had  an  insight  into 
the  true  relations  between  the  two  forms  of  spir- 
itual life,  in  which  he  was  able  to  appreciate 
that  which  was  most  different  from  his  own. 

We  have  seen  how,  in  the  tragedies  of  Victor 
Hugo,  the  spirit  was  continually  confronted  and 
overborne  by  its  own  past.  In  the  story  of  Jean 
Valjean  the  author  deals  with  the  same  theme, 
but  plays  it  out  to  its  magnificent  completion. 
In  this,  the  hero  is  also  dogged  by  his  own  past, 


THE   TRAGIC  FORCES.  I  $  3 

but  when  he  might  have  escaped  it,  when  he 
might  have  seen  it  overwhelm  another  instead 
of  himself,  he  stepped  forward  and  took  the  ter- 
rible burden  upon  his  own  shoulders.  It  was  the 
tragic  retribution,  but  by  this  free  choice  it 
was  transformed.  The  man  was  still  supreme 
over  his  fate. 

A  dramatic  example  of  the  same  relation  is 
found  in  the  case  of  Mildred,  in  Browning's 
"  Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon."  She  forebore  all 
attempt  at  self-justification  ;  would  say  and  do 
nothing  to  palliate  her  fault ;  would  accept  no 
veneering  of  it  with  the  forms  of  respectability  ; 
but  calmly,  though  with  a  broken  heart,  faced 
the  full  consequences  of  her  sin,  feeling  them  to 
be  only  its  natural  and  deserved  penalty. 

Freedom  cannot  change  the  nature.  It  cannot 
do  away  with  the  facts  of  life ;  but  it  can  so  use 
them  as  to  change  their  aspect  and  meaning. 
Freedom  does  not  beget  freedom,  but  a  higher 
necessity.  The  moral  principle  can  exalt  the 
nature  till  it  becomes  subject  to  new  influences, 
as  the  aeronaut  may  rise  into  higher  currents ; 
and  love  may  enlarge  the  nature  until  it  takes 
the  most  diverse  influence  into  itself.  Resigna- 
tion and  acceptance  may  take  from  events,  their 


154  POETRY. 

power  to  harm,  even  at  the  very  moment  of 
their  triumph.  That  which  was  most  foreign  be- 
comes one's  own.  Thus  faith  and  patience  may 
change  defeat  into  victory,  and  in  the  freedom  of 
the  pure  personality  the  tragic  conflict  finds  its 
solution. 


II.  COMEDY. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC. 

THERE  are  many  who  would  accept  nothing 
which  they  cannot  understand.  They  believe 
that  the  intellect  should  be  the  guide  of  life; 
that  motives  should  be  clearly  known  in  order  to 
be  acted  upon  ;  in  a  word,  that  we  should  believe, 
should  admire,  and  should  act,  simply  according 
to  the  light  that  is  given  us.  Experience  contra- 
dicts such  theories,  however  plausible  they  may 
seem.  In  fact,  the  best  part  of  .our  life  is  that 
of  which  we  can  give  no  account.  Our  loftiest 
emotions,  our  profoundest  beliefs,  have  always 
had  their  roots  in  the  unconscious  part  of  our 
nature.  They  have  been  the  result  of  impulses 
which  have  been  followed  blindly.  All  this 
may  seem  unworthy  of  that  human  nature  the 
mechanically  complete  model  of  which  is  thrown 
off  so  easily  by  our  philosophers ;  but  perhaps  it 
may  imply  a  deeper  and  grander  view  of  our 


156  COMEDY. 

own  nature,  and  of  the  larger  nature  of  which 
this  is  a  part,  than  that  furnished  by  these  fin- 
ished and  flippant  theories.  Thus  men  have 
always  rejoiced  in  beauty,  and  bowed  themselves 
befora  sublimity,  and  yielded  themselves  to  the 
stress  of  the  moral  sentiment,  or  submitted 
humbly  to  the  reproaches  of  the  violated  moral 
sense,  and  at  the  same  time  they  have  had  very 
little  idea  what  was  the  meaning  of  it  all.  Of 
course  this  could  not  go  on  indefinitely.  It  is 
part  of  the  greatness  of  our  human  nature  that  it 
strives  to  comprehend  all  things.  This  effort  at 
comprehension  is,  however,  very  different  from 
rejecting  all  that  we  cannot  comprehend.  There 
have  been  theories  of  beauty  and  theories  of  mor- 
ality. The  joke  of  it  is,  —  perhaps  in  considera- 
tion of  my  special  theme  I  may  use  this  phrase, 
—  that  these  theories  have  been  diametrically  op- 
posed to  one  another,  and  yet  men  have  felt  and 
acted  just  as  if  all  had  the  same  theory  ;  which 
shows  that  the  theory  has  had  very  little  to  do 
with  the  result. 

Among  those  great  elements  of  human  nature 
which  have  shown  themselves  to  be  rooted  in 
the  deep,  unconscious  life  of  man,  must  be  placed 
the  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  Just  as  men  have 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         157 

bowed  before  the  beautiful,  and  yielded  them- 
selves to  the  sublime  behests  of  morality,  have 
worshipped  the  unseen  and  uncomprehended  ideal 
that  has  seemed  the  one  reality,  without  being 
able  to  explain  or  justify  their  acts,  so  they  have 
laughed  without  being  able  to  tell  why,  or  to  say 
specifically  at  what.  If  you  ask  almost  any  per- 
son convulsed  with  laughter  what  it  is  that 
amuses  him  so,  he  will  simply  point  out  the 
object  or  repeat  the  tale.  If  you  ask  why  he 
laughs  at  it,  he  will  say  :  "  Oh,  it  is  so  funny ! " 
If  you  ask  why  it  is  funny,  he  can  do  nothing 
but  show  you  again  the  point  of  the  joke. 

Here,  too,  our  philosophers  have  been  very 
busy.  As  they  have  sought  to  point  out  the 
essence  of  beauty  and  the  source  of  morality, 
so  they  have  sought  to  make  the  ludicrous  trans- 
parent to  their  thought,  and  we  have  had  theories 
of  the  comic  as  well  as  theories  of  beauty  and 
of  morality. 

I  have  said  that,  in  spite  of  differing  theories, 
the  great  inner,  unconscious  life  goes  on  its  own 
way,  and  men  admire  and  obey  and  worship  and 
laugh  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  philoso- 
phy. I  fear  I  was  not  wholly  right.  I  am  afraid 
that  while  the  theory  that  a  man  holds  has  no 


158  COMEDY. 

direct  influence  upon  his  life,  all  this  theorizing 
does  have  a  benumbing  effect  upon  the  nature. 
It  somehow  lowers  the  vitality.  It  makes  it  all 
seem  of  less  account.  One  trouble  is  that  we 
have  in  these  days  such  a  prosaic  set  of  philoso- 
phers. Men  talk  about  beauty  who  seem  as  if 
they  had  never  felt  a  single  thrill  of  aesthetic  joy. 
They  write  about  morality,  and  seem  as  if  they 
had  never  known  for  a  moment  what  is  meant  by 
the  stern  voice  of  duty.  Men  write  on  style 
and  rhetoric  whose  clumsy  fingers  could  never 
form  a  graceful  sentence  ;  and  on  the  comic  who 
seem  as  if  they  could  never  have  laughed  at  a 
joke  in  their  lives.  I  confess  that  all  this  is 
depressing.  When  I  felt  moved  to  write  upon 
this  theme,  of  course  it  was  necessary  to  read, 
more  carefully  than  I  had  done  before,  more  or 
less  of  the  literature  of  the  subject ;  and  in  con- 
sequence of  this,  I  am  now  beginning  to  feel  as 
if  a  joke  were  one  of  the  most  solemn  things  in 
the  world.  I  have  gained  a  new  sense  from  this 
experience  of  the  manner  in  which  the  higher 
aesthetic,  moral,  and  "religious  life  must  surfer 
from  all  this  prosy  platitudinizing. 

In  spite  of  this  protest,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  a  true  theory  of  beauty  might  quicken  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  COMIC.          159 

power  to  enjoy  ;  and  a  true  theory  of  ethics 
might  strengthen  the  moral  nature.  I  must  con- 
fess, however,  that  it  is  doubtful  if  a  true  theory 
of  the  comic  would  help  the  enjoyment  of  the 
ludicrous.  We  may  admire  by  rule  and  live  by 
rule,  but  we  shall  never  learn,  at  least  so  I  hope 
and  trust,  to  laugh  by  rule.  A  true  theory  of 
the  comic  would,  however,  throw  much  light  on 
many  relations  of  the  world  and  life ;  and,  at 
least,  if  we  must  have  theories  it  is  better  to  have 
them  true  than  false ;  and  this  must  be  the  jus- 
tification of  my  attempt. 

Two  principles  have  been  variously  recognized 
as  forming  the  essence  of  the  comic.  One  is  a 
certain  incongruousness  in  objects  or  relations. 
The  other  is  the  sudden  recognition  of  some  lack 
or  inferiority  in  others  which  leads  to  self-satis- 
faction in  one's  own  superiority.  These  two 
views  are  obviously  not  in  opposition.  The 
defect  which  one  discovers  in  another  is  simply 
a  form  of  incongruity  upon  which  one  can  look 
down  with  some  contempt.  Aristotle  says  that 
the  ridiculous  is  a  certain  error  and  turpitude 
unattended  with  pain  and  not  of  a  destructive 
nature.  The  name  of  Hobbes  is  chiefly  associ- 
ated with  the  view  that  makes  the  ludicrous  sug- 


160  COMEDY. 

gested  by  some  inferiority.  He  says :  "  I  may 
therefore  conclude,  that  the  passion  of  laughter 
is  nothing  else  but  sudden  glory  arising  from 
some  sudden  conception  of  some  eminency  in 
ourselves  by  comparison  with  the  inferiority  of 
others,  or  with  our  own  formerly ;  for  men  laugh 
at  the  follies  of  themselves  past,  when  they  come 
suddenly  to  remembrance,  except  they  bring  with 
them  any  present  dishonor.  It  is  no  wonder, 
therefore,  that  men  take  heinously  to  be  laughed 
at  or  derided,  that  is,  triumphed  over.  Laughter 
without  offence  must  be  at  absurdities  and  infirm- 
ities abstracted  from  persons,  and  when  all  the 
company  may  laugh  together ;  for  laughing  to 
one's  self  putteth  all  the  rest  into  jealousy  and 
examination  of  themselves.  Besides,  it  is  vain- 
glory, and  an  argument  of  little  worth,  to  think 
the  infirmity  of  another  sufficient  matter  for  his 
triumph." 

The  last  part  of  this  extract  might  seem  to 
recognize  the  fact  that  there  may  be  laughter 
without  triumph.  All  that  is  really  meant,  how- 
ever, is  to  advise  that  laughter  be  directed  to- 
wards absurdities  and  infirmities  in  the  abstract 
rather  than  in  the  concrete.  To  carry  out  the 
thought  a  little  farther:  it  is  probable  that  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  COMIC.         l6l 

company  thus  laughing  at  infirmities  in  the  ab- 
stract are  amusing  themselves  at  the  weaknesses 
of  human  nature  in  general,  above  which,  in 
their  own  fancy  at  least, "they  are  raised.  Their 
position  may  be  perhaps  illustrated  by  the  excla- 
mation of  the  old  lady  who  cried,  "  It  takes  all 
sorts  to  make  a  world,  and  I  thank  God  I  am  not 
one  of  them." 

In  our  days,  Professor  Bain  has  identified  him- 
self with  the  view  that  makes  a  certain  sense  of 
superiority  essential  to  any  perception  of  the 
ludicrous.  He  says  :  "  I  quite  understand  the 
laugh  of  pleasure  and  admiration  at  a  felicitous 
stroke  of  wit,  but  no  one  confounds  this  with  the 
genuinely  ludicrous."  He  thus  easily  defends 
his  position.  He  lays  down  a  theory  of  the 
comic,  and  denies  anything  to  be  ludicrous  that 
does  not  conform  to  it.  If  he  could  only  make 
the  world  use  words  strictly  in  his  sense,  all 
would  be  well.  He,  however,  incautiously  ven- 
tures out  of  this  logically  safe  retreat,  and  with 
needless  boldness  challenges  Herbert  Spencer, 
who  takes  a  different  view  of  the  matter,  to  .pro- 
duce an  example  of  a  pun  that  does  not  involve 
the  idea  of  degradation.  I  wonder  what  he 
would  say  to  this  model  little  conundrum,  which 


1 62  COMEDY. 

contains  a  pun,  if  such  a  thing  exists  :  "  When 
does  English  butter  become  denationalized  ? " 
the  answer  to  which  is,  "  When  it  is  made  into  a 
little  Pat."  Here  all  the  joke  lies  in  the  patness 
of  the  answer,  so  to  speak.  One  has  no  con- 
tempt for  the  English  or  their  butter,  or  even  for 
the  little  Pat ;  and  certainly  one  has  only  a  pro- 
found admiration  for  the  maker  of  the  conun- 
drum. Or  take  another  example  in  which  the 
sense  of  superiority  passes  suddenly  into  its 
opposite.  A  well-dressed  guest  going  out  of  a 
friend's  house  falls  and  rolls  down  the  terraces  to 
the  mud  at  their  foot.  We  are  amused  at  the 
incident,  and  it  is  possible  that  a  sense  of  su- 
periority enters  into  our  amusement.  We  are 
upright,  dignified,  and  clean.  We  can  afford  to 
laugh  at  this  poor  fellow  scrambling  in  the  dirt. 
But  his  friend  hearing  the  noise  comes  out  and 
cries  "  What 's  that  ?  "  The  fallen  guest,  hardly 
yet  having  reached  the  soft  bed  towards  which 
he  is  plunging,  answers,  quick  as  thought, 

"  'T  is  '  I,  sir,  rolling  rapidly.'  " 

AH,  our  sense  of  superiority  is  gone.  Why,  this 
man  is  the  very  hero  of  the  pun.  He  is  the  mar- 
tyr of  Paronomasia.  We  feel  that  if  such  a  test 
had  come  to  us,  we  should  not  have  met  it  as  he 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         163 

did.  Our  sense  of  the  comic  is,  however,  in- 
creased, not  lessened,  by  the  admiration. 

To  prove  that  the  comic  does  not  consist  in 
the  perception  of  the  incongruous,  Professor 
Bain  enumerates  many  incongruities  that  he 
says  may  produce  anything  but  a  laugh :  "  A 
decrepit  man  under  a  heavy  burden,  five  loaves 
and  two  fishes  among  a  multitude,  and  all  unfit- 
ness  and  gross  disproportion  ;  an  instrument  out 
of  tune,  a  fly  in  ointment,  snow  in  May,  Archi- 
medes studying  geometry  in  a  siege,  and  all  dis- 
cordant things  ;  everything  of  the  nature  of  dis- 
order, such  as  a  breach  of  bargain,  and  falsehood 
in  general,  and  also  the  multitude  taking  the  law 
in  their  own  hands ;  whatever  is  unnatural,  as 
a  corpse  at  a  feast,  parental  cruelty  and  filial 
ingratitude;"  he  refers  also  to  the  entire  cata- 
logue of  the  vanities  given  by  Solomon.  All 
the  incidents  and  classes  of  incidents  referred 
to  are  incongruous,  he  tells  us,  but  they  cause 
"feelings  of  pain,  anger,  sadness,  loathing,  rather 
than  mirth." 

Now,  even  if  the  ludicrous  be  the  incongruous, 
it  by  no  means  follows  that  all  incongruity  is  lu- 
dicrous. I  venture  to  say,  however,  that  there  is 
no  one  of  the  incongruities  in  the  list  just  given 


1 64  COMEDY. 

that  might  not,  under  some  circumstances  and 
to  some  persons,  cause  mirth.  Take  for  instance 
the  case  of  the  decrepit  old  man  under  a  bur- 
den. To  the  street  boy,  how  many  old  men  have 
been  the  subject  of  mockery,  from  Elisha  down  ! 
While  an  instrument  slightly  out  of  tune  might 
not  excite  mirth,  I  think  that  a  sudden  and  gross 
discord  in  the  midst  of  harmony  often  provokes 
a  smile.  Such  is  the  sudden  squeaking  out  of 
a  leaking  organ-pipe  at  the  wrong  place.  I  was 
once  in  a  carriage  with  a  company  of  singers 
who  had  just  taken  part  in  a  funeral  service,  and 
was  not  a  little  shocked  when  they  burst  into 
laughter  while  still  in  plain  view  from  the  house 
of  mourning.  Something  had  gone  wrong  with 
the  music,  and  in  spite  of  the  dictum  of  Pro- 
fessor Bain,  it  was  ludicrous  to  them.  Why 
Archimedes  studying  geometry  in  a  siege  should 
have  been  placed  in  the  list  of  objects  that 
"  cause  feelings  of  pain,  anger,  sadness,  and 
loathing,"  I  do  not  understand.  To  the  thought- 
ful mind  it  suggests  rather  a  sense  of  sublimity. 
There  are,  however,  persons  to  whom  this  would 
seem,  or  might  be  made  to  seem,  one  of  the 
most  absurd  things  in  the  world.  The  absorp- 
tion of  the  man  of  books,  in  the  midst  of  the  in- 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF.   THE  COMIC.          165 

terests  and  perils  of  ordinary  life,  has  often  been 
the  theme  of  jests.  The  ancient  philosopher 
who,  while  gazing  at  the  stars  as  he  walked,  fell 
into  a  ditch,  may  stand  as  an  example  of  this 
collision  between  the  speculative  and  the  practi- 
cal mind.  The  absent-mindedness  of  the  student 
or  the  thinker  has  always  been  found  ridiculous, 
as  in  the  Scholastikos  of  the  Greek  reader.  I 
need  not  go  through  the  list.  I  will  give  simply 
an  extreme  case,  more  extreme  than  any  which 
has  been  referred  to.  The  murder  of  one's  grand- 
mother is  certainly  one  of  the  most  awful  things 
in  the  world;  but  in  Andersen's  story  of  "The 
Great  Klaus  and  the  Little  Klaus,"  the  fact  that 
the  great  Klaus  was  entrapped  into  killing  his 
grandmother,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  a  great 
price  for  the  body  of  the  old  lady,  is  one  of  the 
funniest  points  of  the  narrative. 

The  fact  that  the  most  painful  incidents  may 
be  made  matter  of  mirth  brings  us  face  to  face 
with  an  absurd  difficulty,  the  reality  of  which  we 
could  hardly  have  guessed  in  advance.  I  mean 
the  difficulty  of  distinguishing  between  the 
comic  and  the  tragic.  Indeed,  when  we  look  at 
the  matter  we  see  that  there  is  a  very  close  con- 
nection between  the  two. 


1 66  COMEDY. 

The  circumstances  which  suggest  the  comic 
are  very  naturally  those  which  are,  to  a  greater 
or  less  extent,  really  tragic.  The  tragic  is,  like 
the  comic,  simply  the  incongruous.  The  great 
tragedy  of  nature,  which  is  called  the  Struggle 
for  Existence,  results  simply  from  a  greater  or 
less  incongruousness  between  any  form  of  life 
and  its  surroundings.  Thus  it  is  that  there  is 
nothing  tragic  that  may  not  to  some  persons,  or 
to  some  moods,  be  comic.  Take  the  great  trag- 
edies themselves.  Take  the  story  of  CEdipus : 
A  man  goes  forth  and  meets  another,  whom  he 
does  not  know,  and  kills  him  ;  this  stranger 
turns  out  to  be  his  father.  He  falls  in  love  with 
a  woman  that  he  meets,  and  marries  her  ;  she 
proves  to  be  his  mother.  Shall  we  have  out  of 
all  this  a  tragedy  or  a  comedy  ?  This  depends 
upon  the  taste  of  the  author,  or  of  the  audience 
for  whom  he  writes.  Or  take  the  story  of  Cly- 
temnestra.  How  many  comedies  have  found 
their  motive  in  domestic  infidelity !  What  can  be 
more  tragic,  more  wholly  sad,  than  the  thought 
of  a  mother  waiting  and  watching  for  her  son 
who  does  not  come  ?  He  is  lying  all  the  while 
among  the  dead.  He  has  fallen  in  battle,  and 
that  waiting  mother  shall  never  greet  her  child 


THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC;        l6/ 

again.  Yet  to  the  Israelites,  the  thought  of  the 
mother  of  Sisera  looking  through  her  lattice, 
and  wondering  why  her  son  delayed  his  coming, 
presented  a  picture  irresistibly  ludicrous.  Thus, 
in  barbarous  or  semi-barbarous  warfare,  the  vic- 
tor mocks  his  fallen  foe  and  laughs  at  his  suffer- 
ings. In  lands  called  civilized  and  Christian, 
how  many  are  there  who  make  merry  over  the 
misfortunes  of  those  who  have  offended  them  ; 
sometimes  even  over  those  of  persons  who  are 
indifferent  to  them ;  or  even  those  of  their 
own  friends !  These  examples  are  enough  to 
show  that  the  distinction  which  from  Aristotle 
downward  philosophers  have  sought  to  make 
between  the  tragic  and  the  comic,  by  which  in- 
congruity without  pain  is  regarded  as.  comic,  and 
incongruity  accompanied  by  pain  as  tragic,  has 
no  existence.  The  greatest  suffering  connected 
with  any  incongruity  is  not  enough  to  take  away 
its  comic  aspect  to  many  minds. 

If  it  is  true  that  there  is  nothing  tragic  that 
may  not,  to  persons  in  certain  grades  of  moral 
development  or  in  certain  moods,  become  comic, 
it  is  equally  true,  on  the  other  hand,  that  very 
much  of  the  comic  has  its  tragic  side.  The 
tragic  collision  may  be  to  most,  perhaps  to  all, 


1 68  COMEDY. 

unimportant,  yet  it  is  real,  and  we  can  imagine 
circumstances  under  which  it  might  be  keenly 
felt.  In  my  student  days  I  was  strolling  with 
classmates  by  the  side  of  a  broad  ditch  that  was 
half  filled  with  muddy  water.  "You  cannot 
jump  over  that,  Jones,"  said  one  to  another.  In 
a  moment  Jones  felt  himself  put  upon  his  mettle. 
Before  we  fairly  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  was 
half  across  the  ditch  ;  but,  alas !  only  half.  As 
he  emerged  dripping,  his  boots  and  clothing  cov- 
ered with  mud,  you  can  imagine  the  laughter 
that  greeted  him.  The  formula  of  the  joke  was 
precisely  that  of  the  mirth  which  the  savage 
finds  in  the  sufferings  of  his  fallen  foe.  In  each 
case,  the  comic  consists  in  the  incongruity  be- 
tween the  ill-founded  hopes,  the  conceit  with 
which  the  man  set  forth,  and  the  ridiculous  fail- 
ure of  it  all.  The  savage  thinks,  "  He  came  out 
against  me,  he  was  going  to  destroy  me,  and  lo ! 
here  he  is,  caught  in  his  own  trap,  fallen  into  his 
own  ditch."  Unwittingly  I  have  stumbled  into 
the  ditch  which  caused  the  laugh  against  poor 
Jones.  Suppose,  however,  that  he  had  been  the 
son  of  a  widow,  who  had  toiled  early  and  late 
that  he  might  appear  respectably  among  his 
comrades.  She  had  felt  a  mother's  pride  when 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         169 

he  went  forth  elegant  in  his  new  and  shining 
suit.  Would  she  see  the  joke,  do  you  think, 
when  he  came  home,  his  fresh  garments  drag- 
gled and  spoiled  ?  We  students  saw  the  comic 
side  ;  there  was  also  a  tragic  side,  which  under 
certain  circumstances  would  have  been  keenly 
felt.  Or  suppose  him  to  have  had  a  consumptive 
tendency :  in  this  case  the  tragedy  would  have 
been  yet  more  keen. 

We  read  Mrs.  Caudle's  curtain  lectures,  and 
find  them  very  funny.  To  poor  Caudle  they 
were  not  all  fun.  We  make  merry  over  Jack  Fal- 
staff.  Was  there  no  tragedy  there  ?  Prince  Hal 
laughed  at  the  comedy.  King  Henry  saw  the 
full  force  of  the  tragedy.  Who  so  funny  as  Dog- 
berry ?  His  blunders  and  his  stupidity  are  irre- 
sistible. But  suppose  him  to  have  a  daughter 
who  had  been  to  the  schools,  who  knew  that  "  va- 
grant "  was  not  pronounced  "  vagrom,"  who  had 
been  proud  of  her  father's  appointment,  and  had 
hoped  for  a  certain  social  elevation  from  it,  and 
was  proportionally  mortified  at  the  exhibition  he 
was  making  of  himself ;  or  suppose  a  reformer  to 
have  been  present  who  was  indignant  that  such 
men  should  hold  office,  would  he  not  have  cried, 
"  Yes,  write  him  down  an  ass  ;  and  when  you  do 


170  COMEDY. 

this,  you  write  down  the  government  that  ap- 
pointed him  an  ass  ;  and  you  write  down  an  ass 
every  citizen  that  does  not  protest  against  such 
misuse  of  government  patronage."  Neither  of 
these  would  see  the  joke. 

We  thus  find  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  deter- 
mine what  kind  of  incongruity  is  ludicrous.  The 
examination  has  brought  to  light  the  fact  that 
the  standard  of  the  comic  varies  with  different 
individuals.  In  cases  where  one  man  would  be 
shocked,  or  in  those  where  one  would  be  filled 
with  awe,  another  would  be  moved  to  uproarious 
laughter.  This  might  suggest  to  us  to  seek  for 
the  source  and  measure  of  the  comic  within 
rather  than  without. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  if  considera- 
tions like  those  that  have  been  named  were  in 
the  mind  of  Socrates  when  he  insisted  upon  the 
kinship  between  comedy  and  tragedy.  If  only 
his  companions  had  not  at  the  important  mo- 
ment begun  to  doze,  "  as  not  very  well  following 
the  argument,"  we  might,  perhaps,  have  found 

the  whole  substance  of  this  discussion  set  forth  in 

% 

the  "  Symposium."  The  saying  of  Socrates,  that 
"  He  who  is  by  art  a  tragic  poet  is  also  a  comic 
one,"  is  a  remarkable  prophecy  of  Shakespeare, 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         I /I 

to  have  been  uttered  when  the  lines  between  the 
two  kinds  of  composition  were  so  sharply  drawn 
as  they  were  in  Greece.  At  the  same  time  we 
must  not  accept  this  proposition  too  literally. 
The  more,  the  comic  collision  may  resemble  the 
tragic  one,  the  greater  must  be  the  difference 
between  the  points  of  view,  or  the  moods  of 
mind,  from  which  comedy  and  tragedy  respec- 
tively spring,  and  it  is  not  every  poet  that  can 
assume  indifferently  the  one  or  the  other.  The 
relation  of  Socrates  to  the  Athenian  state  formed, 
as  we  have  seen,  the  tragedy  of  Greece  ;  but  the 
fate  of  Socrates  was  the  legitimate  outcome  of 
the  comedy  of  Aristophanes. 

Schopenhauer  is,  I  think,  the  only  writer  who 
has  laid  a  real  foundation  for  the  philosophy  of 
the  comic,  though  it  is  only  a  foundation.  Be- 
fore discussing  the  nature  of  the  comic,  he  had 
been  discoursing  upon  the  human  reason.  The 
reason  is  to  him  the  power  of  thinking  by  con- 
ceptions more  or  less  abstract.  The  process 
of  thought  consists  in  forming  generalizations; 
or  in  the  subsumption  of  particular  and  in- 
dividual objects  and  events  under  more  gen- 
eral conceptions.  The  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
is  caused  by  certain  aspects  or  results  of  this 


1/2  COMEDY. 

process  of  subsumption.  Thus,  when  an  indi- 
vidual object  is  put  by  us  into  some  category 
where  there  is  a  certain  reason  for  placing  it,  but 
where  for  many  other  reasons  it  is  strikingly  out 
of  place,  we  may  have  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous. 
The  more  reasonable  on  the  one  side  is  the  sub- 
sumption  of  this  particular  object  under  this 
general  conception,  and  the  greater  and  the 
more  glaring  on  the  other  is  its  unfitness  for 
this  generalization,  so  much  the  stronger  is  the 
comic  effect  that  springs  from  it.  We  should  add, 
what  Schopenhauer  overlooks,  that  this  subsump- 
tion is  the  play  of  the  imagination  rather  than 
the  act  of  the  conscious  intellect.  A  like  result 
is  produced  by  a  word  in  which  dissimilar  mean- 
ings are  united.  When  of  two  meanings  one  forces 
itself  upon  us  that  is  strikingly  out  of  place,  we 
may  have  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  I  say  "we  may  have  the 
sense  of  the  ludicrous,"  not  that  we  shall  have 
it.  Not  every  such  generalization,  not  even 
every  glaring  extravagance  of  the  kind,  produces 
a  comic  effect.  There  must  be  a  special  degree 
of  fitness  united  with  a  special  degree  of  un- 
fitness ;  and  the  two  must  stand  in  a  special 
relation  to  one  another,  if  the  effect  is  to  be 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.          173 

produced.  Whether  these  conditions  are  or  are 
not  fulfilled  cannot  be  determined  by  the  appli- 
cation of  any  rule.  No  a  priori  reasoning  can 
be  applied  to  the  matter.  A  joke,  in  its  way, 
is  like  a  piece  of  music  or  a  statue.  Beauty 
is  a  matter,  not  of  reasoning  but  of  recognition. 
We  may  have  a  fine  philosophy  of  art,  but  its 
use  is  in  explaining  success  rather  than  in  proph- 
esying it.  The  philosophy  may  be  good,  but  the 
elements  in  the  aesthetic  effect  are  too  delicate 
for  scientific  forecast.  All  this  is  true  also  of 
the  joke. 

Schopenhauer  errs,  I  think,  when  he  divides 
the  comic  into  two  classes.  In  the  one  class  he 
places  the  witty  conceit,  and  in  the  other  the 
foolish  act.  In  the  first  case,  we  consciously 
bring  foreign  and  heterogeneous  elements  under 
some  higher  generalization  to  which  their  unfit- 
ness  is  manifest.  In  the  second  case,  a  man 
starts  with  a  conception  which  he  proceeds  to 
apply  to  the  outer  world,  taking  it  for  granted 
that  the  outer  world  will  conform  to  it ;  but 
when  he  finds  that  things  do  not  respect  his  pre- 
conceived idea,  and  all  turns  out  quite  opposite 
to  what  he  had  expected,  he  is  filled  with  aston- 
ishment. As  an  instance  of  this,  Schopenhauer 


174  COMEDY. 

tells  of  two  peasants  who  wished  to  remove  the 
shot  from  their  gun  without  firing  it.  One  puts 
the  muzzle  of  the  gun  into  his  hat,  and  his  hat 
between  his  knees,  and  tells  the  other  who  holds 
the  gun  to  pull  the  trigger  "  gently,  gently,  gen- 
tly, and  the  shot  will  roll  out."  This  he  says, 
proceeds  from  the  general  notion  that  a  retarding 
of  the  cause  will  produce  a  corresponding  result 
in  the  effect.  I  quote  this,  not  as  being  -so  very 
funny  in  itself,  but  as  suggesting  a  comic  aspect 
to  some  of  the  popular  speculation  of  the  day. 
This  goes  on  precisely  the  opposite  assumption, 
though  one  wholly  kindred  in  fact ;  namely,  that 
the  more  slowly  a  result  is  produced,  the  more 
can  a  cause  be  dispensed  with.  Those  who  rea- 
son thus  do  not  realize  that  as  much  force  is 
expended  in  rolling  a  ball  slowly  up  hill  as  if  it 
were  rolled  rapidly.  Thus  any  human  faculty, 
for  instance,  is  supposed  to  be  accounted  for 
when  the  stages  of  its  very  prolonged  develop- 
ment have  been  pointed  out. 

I  think  that  Schopenhauer  is  wrong  in  making 
out  of  folly  and  blundering  a  special  type  of  the 
ludicrous.  If  it  be  thus  specially  classified,  it 
should  not  be  opposed  to  wit,  but  should  be  one 
of  the  classes  of  objects  which  wit  can  use.  A 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.          l?$ 

blunder  in  itself  is  not  funnier  than  anything 
else.  It  may  be  contemplated  with  stern  serious- 
ness, as  by  a  schoolmaster.  The  comicality 
comes  when  we  unite,  in  our  conception  of  the 
man,  the  self-confident  assumption  of  wisdom 
and  the  absolute  ignorance  of  the  facts  of  the 
universe,  or  thoughtlessness  in  regard  to  them. 
Schopenhauer's  explanation  of  the  pleasure 
which  we  derive  from  the  comic  shows  that  the 
one  form  of  it  which  he  appreciates  is  that  of 
blundering,  pedantry,  and  the  like,  which  he  puts 
into  the  second  class.  It  is  the  pleasure  we  take 
in  seeing  that  hard  task-mistress,  Reason,  the 
source  of  our  cares  and  our  sorrows,  proved  in- 
adequate by  the  perception,  which  is  the  source 
of  our  spontaneous  pleasures.  This  is  quite  in 
the  spirit  of  Schopenhauer's  philosophy ;  but  it 
depends  wholly  upon  the  person  which  of  the 
two  sides  of  this  contrast  shall  be  found  ridicu- 
lous. If  to  one  it  is  the  reason  that  is  ludicrous, 
because  it  mistakes  the  fact,  to  another  it  is  the 
fact  which  does  not  conform  to  the  reason.  Em- 
erson, for  instance,  takes  this  second  view.  In 
his  admirable  essay  on  the  comic  he  says  :  "  The 
best  of  all  jokes  is  the  sympathetic  contempla- 
tion of  things  by  the  understanding,  from  the 


176  COMEDY. 

philosopher's  point  of  view.  There  is  no  joke  so 
true  and  deep  in  actual  life  as  when  some  pure 
idealist  goes  up  and  down  among  the  institutions 
of  society,  attended  by  a  man  who  knows  the 
world,  and  who,  sympathizing  with  the  philoso- 
pher's scrutiny,  sympathizes  also  with  the  confu- 
sion and  indignation  of  the  detected  skulking  in- 
stitutions. His  perception  of  disparity,  his  eye 
wandering  perpetually  from  the  rule  to  the 
crooked,  lying,  thieving  fact,  makes  the  eyes  run 
over  with  laughter."  It  is  like  the  story  of  Don 
Quixote,  in  which  every  one  finds  something  lu- 
dicrous, though  different  persons  would  be  found 
laughing  at  opposite  sides  of  the  same  contrast. 
One  illustration  given  by  Schopenhauer  in  an- 
other connection  may  illustrate  this.  I  will  ven- 
ture to  translate  the  German  couplet  into  Eng- 
lish, thus : — 

"  Our  parson 's  the  good  Shepherd  of  whom  the  Bible  spake, 
His  flock  all  soundly  sleeping  and  he  alone  awake." 

One,  in  such  a  picture  as  this,  would  find  the 
idea  of  the  good  pastor  made  ridiculous.  He 
would  say  :  "  You  have  had  your  fine  ideal ;  here 
you  see  what  is  the  real  fact."  Another  would 
hold  fast  to  his  ideal.  It  would  be  to  him  more 
true  and  more  precious  than  ever.  His  ridicule 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE    COMIC.          177 

would  be  directed  simply  against  the  poor  sham 
who  found  himself  suddenly  surrounded  by  the 
light  of  the  true  ideal  of  the  position  he  had 
usurped.  My  own  belief  is  that,  although  one 
may  find  one  side  of  a  contrast  ridiculous,  and  an- 
other the  other,  the  ludicrous  itself  is  something 
entirely  apart  from  this  whole  aspect  of  the  case. 
The  ludicrous  is  simply  the  incongruity  between 
the  elements  which  we  bring  under  a  single  gen- 
ralization,  or  the  incongruity  of  any  one  fact  with 
the  generalization  under  which  we  would  bring 
it.  The  contempt  which  one  person  or  another 
may' feel  in  regard  to  one  side  or  another  of  the 
contrast  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  comic  as 
such.  The  comic  itself,  like  a  lambent  flame, 
may  play  over  the  surface  of  things  without 
scorching  them.  If  the  power  to  burn  be,  as 
it  often  is,  associated  with  this,  it  is  as  a  distinct 
element. 

If  the  comic  is  a  result  of  a  certain  kind  of 
generalization,  it  would  follow  that  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  such  thing  as  the  comic  in  nature. 
The  comic  is  purely  subjective :.  there  is  no  ob- 
jective element  whatever.  It  is  purely  a  matter 
of  generalization  and  subsumption. 

It  is  a  matter  of  classification,  and  there  are 


178  COMEDY. 

no  classes  in  nature.  Everything  is  once  for  all 
what  it  is.  Anything  becomes  comic  only  when 
we  mentally  place  it  in  relations,  or  into  cate- 
gories, where  it  appears  out  of  place.  What  is 
true  of  nature  is,  with  a  single  exception,  true 
of  life.  The  exception  is  found  in  the  fact  that 
there  is  in  life  such  a  thing  as  the  farce.  Per- 
sons may  put  themselves  in  relations  knowing 
that  they  are  ridiculous,  and  for  the  purpose  of 
being  ridiculous.  That  is,  the  human  individual 
may  be  comic  to  and  for  himself.  With  this  ex- 
ception it  is  as  true  of  life  as  of  nature  that  the 
comic,  objectively  considered,  does  not  exist*  A 
blunder  is  a  blunder  ;  a  foolish  person  is  an  indi- 
vidual with  certain  endowments  and  at  a  certain 
stage  of  development.  He  may  seem  ridiculous 
when  we  compare  him  with  something  that  he  is 
not. 

Nature  plays.  The  beauty  of  the  world  repre- 
sents this  play.  The  animals  play.  Even  the 
busy  ants,  we  are  told,  refresh  themselves  by 
games  after  the  work  of  the  day  is  done.  They 
have  their  trials  of  strength,  their  wrestling 
matches,  as  it  were.  Play  is,  however,  some- 
thing very  unlike  the  comic.  A  game  of  chess, 
or  even  a  well-played  game  of  base-ball,  is  not  a 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         179 

funny  spectacle.  Whether  any  of  the  higher 
animals  ever  pass  the  line  that  separates  play 
from  jest,  I  will  not  here  attempt  to  decide. 
Perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to  this  may  be 
found  in  the  teasing  of  one  animal  by  another. 
If  it  be  proved  that  the  animal  may  jest,  the  na- 
ture of  the  comic  is  not  thereby  changed.  It  is 
still  a  matter  of  contemplation  or  creation.  The 
only  difference  is,  that  the  animal  has  .passed 
from  the  ring  to  the  spectator's  seat. 

We  may  now  see  that  the  distinction  made  by 
Professor  Bain  between  the  witty  and  the  ludi- 
crous is  worse  than  artificial.  It  is  wholly  false. 
There  is  nothing  comic  but  wit.  When  we 
laugh  at  anything,  we  "  make  fun  "  of  it. 

We  may  see  now,  from  a  new  point  of  view, 
the  difference  between  the  comic  and  the  tragic. 
Tragedy  may  be  what  the  comic  cannot  be,  an 
outward  fact.  Man  may  behold  it  and  may  be 
moved  by  it ;  but  it  does  not  ask  from  any  such 
recognition  leave  to  be.  It  existed  long  before 
man  appeared  upon  the  earth.  The  great  strug- 
gle for  existence,  which  is  recognized  so  widely 
as  the  moving  power  of  development,  contains 
the  essence  of  tragedy.  In  it  an  individual, 
shaped  by  one  combination  of  natural  forces,  is 


I8O  COMEDY. 

brought  into  collision  with  a  different  combi- 
nation of  forces.  Innumerable  individuals  are 
brought  into  sharp  collision  with  one  another. 
The  competition  for  life  is  a  tragic  struggle.  In 
human  history  tragedy  is  something  real,  whether 
spectators  do  or  do  not  watch  with  eagerness  its 
course,  and  exult  with  the  victor  or  mourn  for 
the  fallen.  But  comedy  must  be  seen  in  order  to 
exist.  It  is  created  in  the  mind  of  the  beholder. 

This  truth  in  regard  to  the  comic  may  be  illus- 
trated by  innumerable  examples.  Indeed,  there 
is  not  a  comic  object  that  might  not  serve  as 
proof.  I  will  refer  to  a  very  few  examples  that 
may  make  the  meaning  of  what  has  been  said 
clear,  and  may  give  an  intimation  of  the  kind  of 
analysis  by  which  it  may  be  supported. 

If  anything  in  nature  is  in  itself  comic,  it 
would  be  found  among  those  objects  which  are 
surrounded  in  the  mind  by  comic  associations, 
and  which  have  a  comic  aspect  to  persons  in 
themselves  widely  different,  and  to  those  widely 
separated  in  time  and  space.  This  association 
with  the  comic  we  naturally  transfer  to  the  ob- 
ject itself,  and  regard  that  as  in  itself  ludicrous. 
Perhaps  nothing  in  nature  has  been  honored  with 
the  laughter  of  such  diverse  and  widely  separated 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.          l8l 

peoples  as  the  frog.  Greece  shook  its  sides  over 
this  little  batrachian.  We  need  think  only  of 
the  so-called  Homeric  hymn  of  "The. Battle  of 
the  Frogs  and  the  Mice,"  and  of  the  tragedy  of 
Aristophanes  to  which  the  frogs  give  the  title. 

The  fact  tha't  in  the  Vedic  hymns  also  the 
frog  figures  in  a  comic  capacity  is,  perhaps,  less 
familiar.  A  burlesque  hymn  is  addressed  to  the 
frogs.  The  repetition  of  the  same  sound  by  one 
frog  and  another  is  compared  to  the  repetition 
by  -a  pupil  of  the  speech  of  his  teacher.  After 
quite  a  detailed  description  the  hymn  closes  as 
follows  :  — 

"  Like  Brahmins  at  the  Soma  sacrifice,  .  .  .  sitting  round  a  full 
pond  and  talking,  you,  O  frogs,  celebrate  this  day  of  the  year 
-when  the  rainy  season  begins.  .  .  .  Cownoise  gave,  Goatnoise 
gave ;  the  brown  gave  and  the  green  gave  us  treasures.  The 
frogs,  who  give  us  hundreds  of  cows,  lengthen  our  life  in  the  rich 
autumn."1 

The  comparison  of  this  poem  with  the  treat- 
ment of  the  frog  in  Greek  literature  is  instruc- 
tive. In  each  the  object  of  mirth  is  placed  in 
a  category  where  it  does  not  belong.  This  cate- 
gory varies  with  the  habits  of  the  different  peo- 
ples. In  the  Homeric  hymn  the  chief  element 
of  the  comic  is  found  in  the  fact  that  the  frog 

1  This  quotation  is  taken  from  a  translation  by  Max  Miiller. 


1 82  COMEDY. 

figures  as  a  warrior.  In  the  Vedic  hymn  the 
point  of  the  joke  is  in  making  the  frog  figure  as 
a  Brahmin.  The  joke  of  making  the  frogs  ap- 
pear as  warriors  is  based  simply  on  their  abso- 
lutely unwarlike  character.  The  making  them 
figure  as  Brahmins  had  more  point.  Their  mo- 
notonous cries  might  probably  take  off  very  well 
the  drone  of  the  priest ;  while  the  endless  rep- 
etition of  the  same  sound  formed  a  very  good 
caricature  of  the  manner  in  which  teacher  and 
pupil  would  go  over  the  same  hymn,  forward  and 
backward,  with  utter  disregard  of  the  meaning. 
Besides  these  special  conceptions  of  warrior  and 
priest,  there  are  others  more  general,  in  connec- 
tion with  which  the  frog  may  appear  ludicrous. 
Our  notion  of  a  living" creature  is  one  which  must 
include  the  frog,  but  yet  the  little  clump  is  very 
far  from  our  ideal  of  life.  In  spite  of  all  this 
sport  made  of  it  by  such  widely  sundered  nations, 
the  frog  is  no  joke.  It  is  a  peaceable  little  crea- 
ture just  adapted  to  its  surroundings. 

A  toad  is  not  a  frog,  but  the  resemblance  is  so 
close  that  I  will  quote  a  graceful  poem  by  Edgar 
Fawcett  on  the  toad.  This  will  illustrate  still 
further  the  fact  that  the  ludicrous  depends  upon 
some  form  of  comparison  or  generalization. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF  THE   COMIC.          183 

'"  Blue  dusk,  that  brings  the  dewy  hours, 

Brings  thee,  of  graceless  form  in  sooth, 
Dark  stumbler  at  the  roots  of  flowers, 
Flaccid,  inert,  uncouth. 

"  Right  ill  can  human  wonder  guess 

Thy  meaning  or  thy  mission  here, 
Gray  lump  of  mottled  clamminess, 
With  that  preposterous  leer  ! 

"  But  when  I  meet  thy  dull  bulk  where 

Luxurious  roses  bend  and  burn, 
Or  some  slim  lily  lifts  to  air 
Its  frail  and  fragrant  urn, 

"  Of  these,  among  the  garden  ways 

So  grim  a  watcher  dost  thou  seem, 
That  I,  with  meditative  gaze, 
Look  down  on  thee  and  dream 

"  Of  thick  lipped  slaves  with  ebon  skin, 
That  squat  in  hideous,  dumb  repose, 
And  guard  the  drowsy  ladies  in 
Their  still  seraglios." 

With  us  the  jackass  is  more  generally  found 
ludicrous  than  the  frog.  The  comicality  of  this 
animal  also  results  from  our  habit  of  generaliza- 
tion. I  think  I  never  see  an  ass  without  won- 
dering afresh  that  it  is  so  small.  It  is  certainly 
very  small  and  gentle  when  compared  with  its 


1 84  COMEDY. 

voice.  It  seems  to  be  tied  to  its  voice  as  Cicero's 
nephew  to  his  sword.  The  voice  certainly  seems 
too  much  for  the  poor  beast.  How  it  wrestles 
with  it!  It  seems  to  be  struggling  to  pump  it 
up  from  some  unknown  depth.  It  pumps  and 
strains  ;  but  just  as  we  think  the  work  is  done 
and  the  voice  will  come  forth  clear  and  strong, 
down  it  goes,  and  the  whole  thing  must  be  done 
over  again.  Its  ears  are  as  much  too  large  for  it, 
judged  by  any  common  standard,  as  its  voice. 
"Nursey  dear,"  cries  the  little  girl,  contemplat- 
ing its  aural  appendages,  — "  Nursey  dear,  do 
you  think  it  would  hurt  it  if  I  should  touch  its 
wings  ?  "  And  yet,  gentlest  and,  unless  thy  grave 
looks  belie  thee,  wisest  of  quadrupeds,  I  would 
not  be  thought  to  cast  ridicule  upon  thee.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  simply  showing  that  when  we 
laugh  at  thee,  it  is  only  at  foolish  fancies  of  our 
own  that  we  laugh.  Thy  voice,  thine  ears,  thy 
wise  look,  all  become  thee,  all  serve  their  purpose, 
and  if  we  take  thee  by  thyself,  thou  art  no  more 
ludicrous  than  the  gazelle. 

But  surely,  it  may  be  urged,  the  monkey  is 
ludicrous  in  itself.  The  comicality  of  the  monkey 
consists  solely  in  the  fact  that  it  is  such  a  carica- 
ture of  humanity.  The  monkey  seems  like  such 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.          185 

an  absurd  little  old  man,  and  the  maternal  disci- 
pline which  we  see  in  the  monkey's  cage  so  re- 
minds us  of  what  we  sometimes  see  in  human 
life,  that  the  effect  of  the  resemblance  and  the 
difference  is  charmingly  comical. 

If  we  pass  from  the  world  of  the  lower  nature 
to  that  of  human  life,  the  same  principle  holds 
good.  Take  as  an  example  one  of  Mark  Twain's 
stories.  There  were  two  sisters,  one  a  wife  and 
one  a  widow.  A  friend  long  absent  returns  to 
the  city  where  they  live.  He  looks  into  the 
crowded  court-house  and  finds  the  living  husband 
pleading  a  case,  and  burdened  by  heat  and  weari- 
ness. As  he  comes  out  and  strolls  along  the 
street,  he  sees  the  widowed  sister  in  a  cafe,  eat- 
ing an  ice.  He  joins  her  and  calls  for  an  ice. 
As  he  sips  it  he  thinks  of  the  poor  lawyer  he  had 
just  left,  and  mistaking  the  widow  for  her  sister, 
and  thinking  her  the  lawyer's  wife,  he  exclaims  : 
"  Madam,  if  your  husband  could  only  have  a 
little  of  this  ice  in  the  intolerable  heat  where  he 
is  now  suffering !  "  Her  look  shows  him  his 
mistake,  and  he  flees  precipitately  from  the  place. 
This  was  a  simple  mistake  like  any  other,  only 
so  much  worse  than  many  another.  It  becomes 
ludicrous  when  we  apply  to  it  our  notions  of  the 


1 86  COMEDY. 

shockingly  inappropriate  and  the  shockingly  ap- 
propriate, and  try  to  unite  both  in  our  conception 
of  the  scene ;  we  think  of  the  pleased  sense  of 
the  man  at  having  thought  of  the  polite  thing  to 
say,  and  of  his  disgust  at  having  been  so  gro- 
tesquely impolite.  We  .picture  the  confusion  of 
his  mind,  divided  between  the  heat  of  the  court- 
room and  that  other  heat.  All  these  various  ele- 
ments are  taken  into  our  thought  of  the  man  or 
of  the  event,  and  the  formula  of  the  comic  is  ful- 
filled ;  namely,  we  have  incongruous  elements 
united  in  a  single  general  conception. 

We  may  illustrate  the  same  point  by  the  story 
of  the  German  professor  who  was  wondering 
that  his  lecture-room  was  so  empty.  Forty  or 
fifty  years  ago,  he  says,  the  room  was  crowded. 
It  is  perfectly  inexplicable  to  him,  especially  as 
he  reads  precisely  the  same  lectures  now  that 
he  did  then.  Here  we  have  in  our  thought  the 
reason  why  he  ought  to  succeed  and  the  reason 
of  his  actual  failure  brought  together  under  one 
general  principle,  namely,  the  sameness  of  his  lec- 
tures. Perhaps  we  may  complete  the  confusion 
of  the  thought,  by  adding  to  it  the  mingled  ven- 
erableness  and  absurdity  of  a  general  custom 
which  this  particular  professor  was  following. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.          1 87 

The  result  of  all  this  is  the  fuller  recognition 
of  the  fact  already  stated,  that  the  comic  lies  not 
in  the  thing,  but  in  our  way  of  looking  at  it. 

In  transferring  the  comic  from  the  objective 
to  the  subjective  world,  Schopenhauer  has  cer- 
tainly made  a  very  important  advance,  and  we 
might  think  that  the  difficulties  were  wholly 
solved.  Practically  they  remain  as  great  as  ever. 
The  distinction  is  really  of  less  importance  than 
it  seems.  The  fact  is  that  the  outer  world,  as  it 
exists  for  us,  is  practically  the  result  of  our  own 
processes  of  thought.  We  see  nothing  in  its 
bare  isolation.  Our  most  real  objects  are  em- 
bodied categories  or  classes.  Thus  the  comic, 
though  subjective,  is  no  more  so  than  many  of 
the  solid  facts  with  which  we  contrast  it.  The 
comic  ordinarily  seems  to  us  as  truly  objective 
as  the  tragic  ;  and  the  tragic  is  often,  though  not 
always,  the  pure  result  of  imagination,  and  thus 
as  subjective  as  the  comic.  Thus  the  difficulty, 
however  absurd,  remains. 

We  need,  then,  to  seek  some  formula  for  the 
comic  which  shall  define  it  more  accurately,  and 
shall  enable  us  to  distinguish,  in  theory  as  readily 
as  in  fact,  between  the  comic  and  the  tragic.  I 
will  venture  to  suggest  a  formula  that  appears  to 


1 88  COMEDY. 

me  to  contain  more  truth  and  to  be  more  helpful 
in  this  respect  than  any  that  I  have  seen.  It  is 
this :  both  the  comic  and  the  tragic  are  based 
upon  incongruities  ;  the  difference  between  them 
lies  in  the  fact  that  the  comic  is  found  in  an 
incongruous  relation,  considered  merely  as  to 
its  form,  while  the  tragic  is  found  in  an  incon- 
gruous relation  taken  as  to  its  reality.  By  the 
form  I  mean  the  simple  relation  of  incongruity. 
By  the  reality  I  mean  the  elements  that  enter 
into  the  relation,  the  causes  that  produced  it,  and 
the  effects  which  result  from  it.  So  far  as  the 
causes  are  concerned,  these  belong  to  the  realm 
of  science,  and  to  science  nothing  is  ludicrous. 
By  the  effects  which  result  from  it,  I  mean  the 
destruction  and  the  sorrow  when  these  are  re- 
garded sympathetically.  Nothing  is  comic  to  the 
heart.  Thus  the  comic  may  be  regarded  as  the 
froth  and  foam  of  life.  If  it  be  urged  against 
this  illustration  that  the  comic  is  often  associated 
with  our  deepest  experiences,  it  must  be  an- 
swered that  the  most  profound  disturbance  of  the 
ocean  may  produce  the  most  abundant  froth  and 
foam. 

In  real  life,  form  and  reality  are  inseparable: 
thus  the  tragic  has   a   real    objective   existence. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF   THE   COMIC.          189 

The  form  can  be  separated  from  the  reality  only 
by  a  process  of  thought ;  thus  the  comic  is,  as 
we  have  seen,  purely  subjective. 

The  difference  between  what  I  have  called  the 
form  and  the  reality  of  a  relation  may  easily  be 
made  clear.  Why  does  the  crowd  that  watches 
a  Punch  and  Judy  show  laugh  at  the  beatings 
which  Punch  gives  to  Judy,  when  in  real  life 
such  an  exhibition  would  ordinarily  arouse  their 
indignation  ?  It  is  simply  that  in  the  case  of 
Punch  we  have  merely  the  form,  the  appearance, 
of  wife-beating,  to  which  the  reality  is  wholly 
wanting.  In  real  life  it  is  sometimes  possible  to 
make  a  similar  abstraction  ;  to  witness  a  transac- 
tion that  has  its  painful  side  with  no  more  sense 
of  its  reality  than  we  have  in  the  exhibition  just 
described.  This  may  be  illustrated  by  any  of 
the  examples  that  have  been  referred  to.  When 
the  man  emerged  muddy  and  dripping  from  the 
ditch,  the  form  of  the  relation  is  the  contrast 
between  the  conceit  with  which  the  action  began 
and  the  downfall  that  followed  it.  The  reality 
consists  in  the  ruined  clothes  and  the  possibility 
of  impaired  health.  It  is  possible  to  look  at  the 
former  of  these  without  any  thought  or  sense  of 
the  latter ;  to  regard  it  with  no  more  sympathy 


190  COMEDY. 

than  we  might  feel  for  such  a  catastrophe  in  a 
theatre.  Looked  at  in  this  way,  the  thing  is 
simply  ludicrous.  So  soon  as  our  sympathy  or 
our  anxiety  go  beyond  the  outward  seeming,  and 
make  us  feel  something  of  the  loss,  suffering,  or 
peril,  then  the  comic  aspect  of  the  thing  is  lost. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  COMIC. 

(Continued?) 

IN  our  study  of  the  comic,  we  have  thus 
reached  certain  principles  that  must  be  re- 
garded as  fundamental.  We  will  now  proceed 
to  apply  these  to  various  aspects  of  the  comic. 
They  will  perhaps  throw  light  upon  certain  mat- 
ters that  have  been  the  theme  of  much  discus- 
sion. 

One  of  these  is  the  distinction  between  wit 
and  humor.  Wit  entirely  separates  the  form 
from  the  reality.  It  cares  not  whether,  in  mak- 
ing this  separation,  it  does  or  does  not  leave  a 
smarting  wound.  Humor  feels  a  deep  sympathy 
with  the  reality,  a  sympathy  which  would  seem 
to  render  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous  impossible. 
Its  regard  and  its  sympathy  are,  however,  so 
strong,  that  the  form  which  it  tenderly  separates 
seems  wholly  superficial.  It  holds  the  form  dis- 
tinct, and  laughs  at  it ;  but  through  this,  and 
behind  it,  it  sees  and  loves  the  individual  that 


192  COMEDY. 

furnishes  the  content.  In  other  words,  this  par- 
ticular form  is  so  superficial  that  it  may  separate 
itself,  leaving  the  substance  whole  and  uninjured. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  treatment  of  some  of  his 
characters  by  Dickens.  He  sees  the  comical 
side  of  them,  but  yet  he  knows  that  this  is  not 
all,  and  loves  them.  Poor,  awkward,  ugly  Kit 
Nubbles  !  Another  might  have  left  him  so,  and 
we  should  have  laughed,  not  merely  at  his  pe- 
culiarities, but  at  himself.  Dickens,  however, 
knows  that  he  has  so  true  and  loving  a  heart 
that  he  can  afford  to  be  ugly  and  awkward.  So 
was  it  also  with  Dora.  What  a  little  fool  she 
was,  to  be  sure !  Yet  we  love  her  as  if  she  were 
the  most  sensible  person  in  the  world.  The  dif- 
ference in  treatment  Dickens  himself  may  illus- 
trate. When  he  wrote  the  story  of  Dora,  the 
picture  that  he  drew  was  tu\\  of  humor  only. 
He  laughed  about  Dora,  but  not  at  her.  When 
he  read  the  story  in  public  he  was,  or  seemed  to 
be,  out  of  sympathy  with  his  own  creation.  I 
confess  myself  to  have  been  pained  at  hearing 
him  and  the  audience  laughing,  not  merely 
about  poor  Dora,  but  at  her.  Thus  we  may 
understand  the  jests  that  friends  make  about 
one  another,  the  friendly  rallying  in  regard  to 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.          193 

some  little  peculiarity.  We  understand,  too, 
how  smiles  and  tears  often  contend  with  one  an- 
other, or  amicably  divide  the  field  between  them. 
Another  question  that  has  been  more  or  less 
discussed  is,  how  far  ridicule  may  be  made  a  test 
of  truth.  From  what  has  been  said,  it  will  ap- 
pear that  it  is  in  no  sense  or  degree  such  a 
test.  There  is  nothing,  however  true  or  how- 
ever sacred,  that  may  not  be  made  ridiculous 
to  some  minds.  All  that  is  necessary  is  some 
absurd  classification  in  which  the  object  to  be 
ridiculed  shall  be  put  into  incongruous  relations. 
The  comic  may  furnish  the  test,  not  of  truth,  but 
of  the  reality,  and  above  all,  of  the  intensity  of 
feeling  in  the  person  who  is  affected  by  the  ludi- 
crous aspect  of  any  object  or  event.  Not  even 
a  man's  admiration  betrays  his  inner  nature  more 
truly  than  his  laughter.  We  have  seen  that  hu- 
mor may  make  itself  merry  with  absurdities  con- 
nected with  persons  who  are  really  held  dear; 
there  is  a  point,  however,  where  this  merry-mak- 
ing must  stop,  a  line  beyond  which  laughter 
would  give  place  to  pain  or  anger  :  - 

"  Though  men  may  bicker  with  the  things  they  love, 
They  would  not  make  them  laughable  in  all  eyes, 
Not  while  they  loved  them." 


194  COMEDY. 

Even  a  devout  person  may  be  amused  at  some 
inappropriate  incident  accidentally  occurring  in 
a  church  service ;  while  if  such  an  incident  had 
been  arranged  out  of  a  spirit  of  mockery,  he 
would  be  shocked.  An  interruption  at  which 
one  would  smile  if  it  had  happened  during  an 
ordinary  church  service,  would  give  keen  pain  if 
it  occurred  during  the  funeral  of  some  dear  friend. 
These  examples  may  illustrate  the  fact  that  the 
test  furnished  by  the  comic  is  subjective  rather 
than  objective  ;  that  it  applies  to  the  nature  or 
feelings  of  the  person  who  laughs,  and  not  to 
that  which  is  found  laughable. 

The  results  that  have  been  reached  may  ex- 
plain the  great  gain  that  comes  to  any  life  from 
the  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  One  gain  is  obvious, 
indeed,  without  study  :  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
will  do  much  to  keep  a  man  from  "  making  a 
fool  of  himself."  It  will  not  wholly  prevent  the 
possibility  of  ridicule.  One  may  still  do  or  say 
seriously  what  will  be  turned  into  joke  ;  but  he 
will  not  be  at  fault.  Take,  for  instance,  that  line 
of  Tennyson  in  which,  speaking  of  Geraint,  he 
says  :  — 

"  For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his  blood." 

It  is  not  the  fault  of  the  poet  if  it  occurs  to  me 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         195 

in  reading  that  Geraint  must  have  drunk  freely, 
because  "one  swallow  does  not  make  a  summer." 
The  sense  of  the  ludicrous  will,  however,  prevent 
a  man  from  saying  and  doing  what  others  will 
find  ludicrous  in  spite  of  themselves.  That  men 
and  women  do  this  is  familiar  in  the  experience 
of  us  all.  My  mind  is  full  of  examples  of  this 
kind  as  I  write  ;  but  I  refrain  from  introducing 
them,  lest  haply  these  pages  should  fall  under  the 
eyes  of  the  persons  concerned.  Meanwhile  the 
series  in  "  Punch "  of  "  the  things  one  would 
rather  have  left  unsaid  "  may  be  referred  to  in 
illustration.  I  will  cite  specially  one  of  the  he- 
roes of  "  Punch,"  though  not,  I  believe,  connected 
with  this  series,  who,  showing  a  friend  through 
his  house,  introduces  him  at  last  to  a  retired 
library.  "  Here,"  he  exclaims,  "  I  can  sit  and 
study  by  the  hour  together,  and  nobody  any  the 
wiser." 

The  advantage  that  has  been  named  is,  however, 
merely  relative.  It  shows  that,  since  the  world 
in  general  has  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  any  indi- 
vidual who  may  be  destitute  of  it  finds  himself  at 
disadvantage.  It  does  not  throw  light  upon  the 
gain  that  comes  to  mankind  in  general  from  the 
possession  of  this  gift.  The  view  that  has  been 


196  COMEDY. 

taken  in  this  discussion  of  the  comic  in  general- 
will,  however,  make  this  clear ;  we  have  seen  that 
in  the  comic  we  have  to  do  with  the  form  of  a  re- 
lation, and  not  with  its  reality.  The  weariness  of 
life  comes  from  our  subjection  to  the  stern  real- 
ities of  things.  We  are  slaves  to  the  substance. 
The  comic  brings  rest  and  refreshment,  because 
by  it  we  are  released  from  the  grip  of  the  sub- 
stance, and  taken  into  the  realm  of  pure  forms. 
The  sense  of  the  beautiful  brings  rest,  because 
in  aesthetic  enjoyment  we  are  taken  out  of  all 
personal  relations,  and  placed  in  a  state  of  pure 
contemplation.  We  are  still,  however,  serious 
and  earnest.  The  sense  of  the  comic  is  pro- 
duced by  the  contemplation  of  the  incongruous  ; 
that  of  beauty,  by  the  contemplation  of  the  har- 
monious. Beauty  we  feel,  however,  to  represent 
the  reality  of  things,  while  in  the  comic  we  do 
not  look  beyond  the  surface.  Thus,  while  both 
the  comic  and  the  beautiful  refresh  us,  the  comic 
leaves  us  simply  refreshed.  Beauty  may  bring 
to  us  inspiration  for  a  higher  life. 

In  the  comic  we  are  taken  into  the  world  of 
surfaces.  The  forms  about  us  mean  nothing. 
All  is  empty.  We  are  wholly  free  from  the  sub- 
stance and  are  refreshed.  Thus  Shakespeare, 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         197 

when  our  mind  is  most  strained  by  sympathy, 
takes  us  suddenly  into  the  world  of  pure  forms. 
The  too  intense  mind  becomes  relaxed  by  this 
play  of  the  comic.  When  we  return  to  the  world 
which  he  has  created  for  us,  the  mind,  relieved  of 
its  tension,  can  give  itself  with  fresh  interest  to 
the  events  that  pass  before  it.  Mere  negation  of 
substance,  mere  vacuity,  mere  aimlessness,  would 
be  tedious.  But  the  comic  brings  occupation 
that  is  not  business.  We  have  the  form  though 
the  substance  is  missing.  We  have  emptiness 
that  is  not  vacuity  ;  a  definite  aimlessness  ;  a  dis- 
order that  preserves  the  form  of  law. 

We  can  now  understand  the  place  which  the 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  fills  in  the  constitution  of 
the  mind.  There  are  persons  almost  wholly  des- 
titute of  it.  Such  persons  are  tied  down  to  the 
substantial  facts  of  life,  whether  these  be  impor- 
tant or  unimportant.  I  will  not  say  that  they 
suffer  more  than  those  who  have  the  sense  of  the 
ludicrous  ;  for  the  power  of  the  imagination  that 
goes  with  this  may  sometimes  create  sorrows. 
They  are,  however,  hard  and  wooden.  Inter- 
course with  them  is  like  driving  in  a  wagon  with- 
out springs.  The  perception  of  the  comic  im- 
plies the  power  of  separating  the  form  from  the 


198  COMEDY. 

substance.  It  implies  the  possibility  of  emanci- 
pating one's  self  from  the  realities  that  would 
hold  us  down  to  their  routine.  One  who  sees  the 
ludicrous  side  of  everything  lives  in  a  world  of 
empty  forms.  Thus  the  poet  sings  of  the  "loud 
laugh  that  speaks  the  vacant  mind."  A  mind 
wholly  given  to  the  ludicrous  would  be  wholly 
vacant.  That  man  is  happily  constituted  who 
can  take  serious  things  seriously,  but  who,  in  a 
thousand  little  matters  which  might  disturb  his 
peace,  can  take  the  form  for  the  substance,  and 
laugh  where  he  might  otherwise  weep.  Thus 
a  natural,  hearty  laugh  is  at  once  a  sign  of  san- 
ity and  a  preserver  of  it.  One  who  can  laugh 
naturally  is  for  the  moment  free  from  any  idfo 
fixe  that  may  be  haunting  him.  He  shows,  for 
the  moment  at  least,  a  superiority  to  the  hard 
facts  of  life.  The  smile  that  one  feels  obliged 
to  cast  about  him  as  he  picks  himself  up  after 
an  awkward  fall  is  a  tribute  to  the  world's  sense 
of  the  worth  and  the  meaning  of  this  power  to 
take  the  form  of  the  relation  instead  of  the 
hard,  underlying  fact  which  is  so  obvious  in  this 
particular  case.  He  who  has  not  this  power  of 
laughter,  even  at  the  awkwardnesses  and  the  un- 
comfortablenesses  that  may  beset  his  own  path, 
is  only  half  equipped  for  the  experiences  of  life. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC,         199 

The  question  as  to  the  cause  of  the  pleasure 
which  we  take  in  the  contemplation  of  the  incon- 
gruities that  have  been  illustrated,  is,  perhaps 
not  wholly  to  be  answered.  Sooner  or  later  we 
reach  certain  ultimate  facts  in  our  constitution, 
that  must  be  accepted  without  further  explana- 
tion. This  may  be  one  of  them.  Yet  one  or 
two  considerations  may  be  suggested  that  will 
throw  a  little  light  upon  the  matter.  I  conceive 
that  there  may  be  found  some  help  in  the  refer- 
ence that  Schopenhauer,  as  we  have  seen,  makes 
to  the  "hard  task-mistress  Reason."  The  spe- 
cial use  made  by  Schopenhauer  of  our  relation 
to  this  hard  task-mistress  is  based  upon  a  misap- 
prehension ;  but  the  relation  itself  may  help  us  a 
little  way  in  our  present  search.  In  the  comic 
our  spirits  find  a  sphere  of  pure  play.  We  have 
a  sense  of  freedom.  We  have  escaped  from  the 
control  of  our  task -mistress.  But  the  joy  of 
freedom  is  never  felt  so  keenly  as  in  the  shadow 
of  our  servitude.  In  the  comic  we  are  not  only 
free  from  the  rule  of  reason  :  we  play  with  the 
rule  itself.  We  are  like  the  schoolboy  who, 
armed  with  the  spectacles  and  the  rod  of  the 
master,  exerts  a  mimic  authority.  It  is  by  the 
very  process  of  generalization,  through  which  our 


200  COMEDY. 

science  and  our  philosophy  are  so  laboriously 
built  up,  that  we  erect  the  unsubstantial  fabric 
of  the  ludicrous.  By  another  form  of  illustration, 
the  comic  may  be  compared  to  a  saturnalian 
revel,  in  which  the  master,  reason,  serves.  To 
this  emancipation  from  reason  even  while  we  are 
using  the  forms  of  reason,  which  is  implied  by 
the  comic,  should  be  added  that  other  emanci- 
pation that  has  been  before  described ;  that, 
namely,  from  the  solid  relations  of  life.  These 
considerations  may  help  us  a  little  way  in  under- 
standing the  pleasure  that  we  derive  from  the 
ludicrous.  I  do  not  claim  that  they  do  more  than 
this,  and  admit  that  the  heart  of  the  mystery  is 
probably  untouched. 

The  relation  between  the  perception  of  the 
comic  and  laughter  raises  interesting  questions. 
The  connection  is  not  an  invariable  one.  We 
certainly  do  not  always  laugh  at  what  we  feel  to 
be  ludicrous,  and,  on  the  other  side,  there  is  the 
laughter  of  pleasure,  of  conceit,  and  of  surprise. 
In  regard  to  these  latter  forms  of  laughter,  while 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  dogmatic  in  the  matter,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  all  laughter,  except  that 
having  a  purely  physical  cause,  is  suggested  by 
some  relation  similar  to  that  which  has  been 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE    COMIC.        2OI 

described.  This  relation  may  not  have  a  really 
comic  aspect,  even  to  the  person  who  laughs. 
In  it,  however,  incongruous  elements  are  brought 
together  under  some  single  generalization.  It 
thus  is  of  the  nature  of  the  comic,  though  the 
incongruities  may  not  be  sufficiently  pointed  for 
true  comic  effect.  Take,  for  instance,  the  laugh 
of  triumph  when  one  has  solved  a  puzzle  or 
any  difficult  problem.  The  incongruity  of  the 
elements  that  enter  into  the  puzzle  has  been  im- 
pressed upon  us  so  long,  that  we  retain  the  sense 
of  it  even  when  we  have  reduced  them  to  the 
single  conception  which  is  the  solution.  Thus 
the  two  elements  are  blended  according  to  the 
formula  of  the  comic.  I  remember  once  to  have 
seen  a  young  man  on  a  railroad  train  watching 
intently  the  time-table  while  he  waited  for  the 
train  to  start.  As  the  train  moved  at  precisely 
the  moment  indicated  by  the  table,  he  burst  into 
a  little  laugh.  He  was  apparently  not  much 
used  to  travel,  and  the  blending  in  a  single  act  of 
the  two  elements  which  seemed  to  him  hardly 
congruous  had  upon  him  the  effect  of  a  joke. 
Of  a  similar  nature  is  the  laugh  of  pleasure. 
This  always  expresses  at  least  a  mild  degree  of 
surprise  ;  and  the  surprise  shows  that  an  event 


202  COMEDY. 

has  occurred  in  spite  of  some  degree  of  improba- 
bility. The  actual  happening  and  the  improba- 
bility, great  or  small,  are  the  incongruous  ele- 
ments that  are  united  in  our  thought.  "  What," 
we  exclaim,  "  my  friend  here  !  I  hardly  expected 
it."  The  smile  of  happiness  expresses  the  same 
thing,  only  in  a  less  degree.  The  smiling  face 
of  joy  implies  a  certain  undefined  sense  of  the 
rarity  of  the  pleasure  in  some  aspect  or  other. 
It  shows  that  the  pleasure  is  not  yet  ranged  with 
the  commonplace. 

Somewhat  similar  is  the  laugh  of  gratified  van- 
ity ;  only  in  this  case  the  sense  of  superiority 
tends  to  raise  one  above  one's  fellows,  so  far  as 
one's  own  feeling  is  concerned.  One's  sympathy 
is  somewhat  lessened,  and  one  can  easily  see 
something  ludicrous  in  what  might  under  other 
circumstances  cause  sympathy.  In  the  laugh  of 
exultation  over  a  fallen  foe,  enmity  does  more 
thoroughly  what  conceit  does  in  the  case  just 
referred  to.  The  conqueror  has  no  sympathy  to 
prevent  his  regarding  the  downfall  of  his  enemy 
in  a  wholly  ludicrous  light. 

With  this  may  be  associated  the  laugh  of 
gayety.  This  may,  perhaps,  be  best  observed  in 
the  gayety  of  the  child.  The  reality  of  life  has 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         203 

not  yet  got  the  child  fairly  in  its  grasp.  The 
child  has  had  no  experience  by  which  pain  and 
loss  are  easily  suggested.  In  the  case  of  a  fall, 
for  instance,  while  the  man  looking  on  might  fear 
a  broken  limb,  the  child  looking  on  might  see 
only  the  comic  aspect  of  the  affair.  A  like  con- 
trast is  to  be  noticed  in  regard  to  less  serious 
matters.  The  child  is  always  bubbling  over  with 
laughter.  Every  little  surprise,  everything  that 
has  the  slightest  air  of  incongruity,  stirs  its 
mirth.  The  man  takes  things  seriously;  the 
child  has  not  yet  reached  the  stage  when  many 
things  are  serious.  What  inexperience  does  for 
the  child,  that  good  spirits  does  for  his  elders. 
As  one's  spirits  rise,  one  becomes  emancipated 
from  the  bondage  to  things  that  at  other  times 
seem  so  real.  In  moments  of  gayety  one  no 
longer  takes  everything  au  grand  strieux.  The 
thousand  little  incongruities,  accidental  or  de- 
signed, that  would  at  other  times  be  disregarded, 
or  regarded  with  impatience,  now  move  to  mirth  ; 
and  the  man  or  the  woman  ripples  into  laughter 
like  a  child. 

The  same  point  may  be  illustrated  by  the  fact 
that  words  which  were  originally  used  to  express 
only  the  ludicrous  come,  in  popular  speech,  to 


2O4  COMEDY. 

stand  for  objects  or  events  that  might  be  covered 
by  the  general  formula  for  the  comic,  although 
the  height  of  the  comic  has  not  been  reached 
by  them,  or  though  they  may  have  even  a  tragic 
aspect.  I  once,  while  travelling,  overheard  one 
young  woman  relating  to  another  some  sad  fam- 
ily history,  in  which  two  or  three  deaths  had 
followed  one  another  in  close  connection,  under 
very  similar  circumstances.  The  response,  made 
with  the  utmost  solemnity  was,  "  How  funny  !  " 
In  the  Yankee  dialect,  I  have  heard  more  than 
once  the  word  "ridiculous"  used  to  express  the 
most  extreme  moral  condemnation.  Mrs.  Stowe, 
who  is  one  of  the  best  reporters  of  this  form  of 
speech,  does  not  let  this  idiom  escape  her.  In 
"  The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island,"  she  makes  Captain 
Kittridge  exclaim,  after  hearing  how  a  man  in 
the  neighborhood  had  tried  to  induce  a  boy  to  go 
on  a  piratical  cruise  with  him,  and  to  raise  the 
money  for  it  by  robbery,  "That  ar's  rediculous 
conduct  in  Atkinson.  He  ought  to  be  talked 
to ; "  and  again  he  says :  "  That  ar  Atkinson  's 
too  rediculous  for  anything."  l  This  use  of  the 

1  As  I  have  spoken  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  fidelity  in  reproducing 
New  England  idioms,  I  must  protest  against  the  "  ar  "  in  "  that 
ar."  I  do  not  believe  that  this  is  ever  heard  in  New  England 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.        2O5 

words  "  funny  "  and  "  ridiculous  "  illustrate  the 
manner  in  which,  as  we  have  seen,  men  some- 
times laugh  at  that  which  is  not  really  ludicrous, 
but  which  might  be  brought  under  the  formula 
for  the  ludicrous  ;  namely,  the  blending  of  incon- 
gruous elements  in  one  conception. 

The  question,  why  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
should  be  expressed  by  the  particular  spasm 
called  laughter,  is  one  that  psychical  physiology 
has  not  yet  satisfactorily  answered.  If  physiol- 
ogists could  explain  why  tickling  should  produce 
laughter,  that  would  perhaps  be  an  important 
step  in  the  solution  of  the  higher  question  that 
is  before  us,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  here 
is  where  the  investigation  should  begin.  So  far 
as  I  know,  the  matter  has  been  taken  up  only  at 
the  other  end.  Indeed,  men  often  like  to  begin 
with  the  most  complicated  examples  of  the  object 
of  study.  Of  course  the  immediate  interest  is 
greater  in  this  method ;  and  there  is  the  added 
advantage  to  the  investigator  that  an  erroneous 
solution  is  less  easily  detected. 

It  is  always  "  that  'ere  "  and  "  this  'eer  "  for  "  that  there  "  and 
"  this  here,"  equivalent  to  cela  and  cect,  which  happen  to  be  good 
French,  while  their  humble  American  kin,  of  equally  good  ex- 
traction, are  regarded  as  vulgar.  The  "ar"  Mrs.  Stowe  must 
have  brought  from  the  South. 


206  COMEDY. 

Herbert  Spencer  has  twice  attacked  this  prob- 
lem, of  which  he  gives  two  solutions,  distinct 
yet  not  incompatible.  One  of  these  explains 
the  phenomena  both  of  tears  and  of  laughter. 
I  confess  the  explanation  is  somewhat  ghastly. 
An  account  of  dropsy  and  of  the  effect  of  blis- 
ters precedes  the  solution  of  the  problem.  The 
solution  is  this  :  When  the  brain  is  surcharged 
with  blood,  laughter,  by  checking  respiration, 
checks  the  oxidation  of  the  blood,  and  the  incip- 
ient congestion  is  relieved.  This  may  very  well 
be  ;  but  why  my  brain,  that  has  been  taxed  with- 
out any  ill  effect,  it  may  be  all  day,  should  be 
thrown  into  such  a  dangerous  congestion  with- 
out this  relief,  simply  by  seeing  a  dandy's  hat 
blow  off,  is  still  inexplicable. 

The  other  explanation  is  more  ingenious  and 
plausible,  though  not  wholly  satisfactory.  It  as- 
sumes that  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous  arises  from 
a  certain  balking  of  our  expectation.  We  are 
expecting  something  grand  ;  in  its  place  appears 
something  trivial.  A  clown  runs  to  his  horse  as 
if  to  leap  over  him,  but  suddenly  stops  and  sim- 
ply pats  him.  We  have  a  store  of  energy  to 
meet  the  expected  grave  thought  or  gymnastic 
performance.  This  energy,  not  needed,  takes 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.         2O/ 

the  easiest  road  to  spend  itself,  and  this  road 
is  found  along  the  laughter-causing  nerves.  This 
implies  that  in  anything  comic  the  less  trivial  el- 
ement always  precedes,  and  the  more  trivial  fol- 
lows. Indeed,  Spencer  says  distinctly  :  "  Laugh- 
ter naturally  results  only  when  consciousness 
is  unawares  transferred  from  great  things  to 
small,  only  when  there  is  what  we  call  a  descend- 
ing incongruity."  But  what  shall  be  said  of  this 
proposition  in  the  face  of  a  couplet  like  the  fol- 
lowing, which  has  caused  a  laugh  to  a  good  many 
unreasoning  persons :  — 

"  And  like  a  lobster  boiled,  the  morn 
From  black  to  red  began  to  turn  "  ? 

This  is  certainly  not  a  descending  incongruity, 
but  the  reverse.  The  comparison  indeed  is  of 
a  great  thing  with  a  small,  but  the  small  comes 
first;  and  there  is  no  store  of  accumulated 'and 
unexpended  energy  to  be  let  off. 

I  wish  that  Mr.  Spencer  had  answered  the 
questions  with  which  he  opens  his  essay  on 
"  The  Physiology  of  Laughter."  They  are  these  : 
"  Why  do  we  smile  when  a  child  puts  on  a  man's 
hat  ?  Or  what  induces  us  to  laugh  on  reading 
that  the  corpulent  Gibbon  was  unable  to  rise 
from  his  knees  after  making  a  tender  declara- 
tion ?  " 


208  COMEDY. 

I  cannot  see  that  Mr.  Spencer's  theory  would 
apply  to  the  child  with  the  hat,  except  when  at 
the  first  glance  we  think  it  to  be  a  man,  and 
then  discover  our  mistake.  When  we  see  the 
child  put  on  the  hat  and  strut  before  us,  there 
is  no  descending  incongruity ;  if  either,  there  is 
an  ascending  one  :  and  yet  this  case  would  pro- 
voke a  smile  as  readily  as  the  other. 

In  the  case  of  the  corpulent  Gibbon,  Mr. 
Spencer's  formula  might  seem,  at  first  sight,  to 
apply  better.  We  expect  to  see  him  get  up,  and 
he  does  not.  This  is  certainly  not  an  ascending 
incongruity ;  quite  otherwise  !  I  appeal,  how- 
ever, to  any  one  who  has  ever  laughed  at  the 
incident  to  say  whether  this  is  the  point  of  the 
story.  Suppose  that  Gibbon  had  been  stooping 
for  any  other  purpose,  trivial  or  grave,  from  pick- 
ing'up  a  pin  to  admiring  a  flower,  or  verifying 
a  botanical  discovery,  would  his  inability  to  rise 
be  anything  like  as  funny  ?  It  is  the  association 
in  our  thought  of  the  ideal  Romeo  with  this 
awkward  corpulency  that  is  acting  his  part  which 
we  find  so  ludicrous. 

The  theory  of  laughter,  as  held  by  Kant, 
brings  us,  as  I  conceive,  a  little  nearer  to  the 
facts  of  the  case,  though  only  a  little.  The 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  COMIC.         209 

sense  of  the  ludicrous,  according  to  Kant,  arises 
when  the  mind  has  been  strained  in  the  expecta- 
tion of  something  real,  and  finds,  not  the  opposite 
of  the  thing  that  was  presupposed,  but  abso- 
lutely nothing.  Thus,  to  use  his  own  example, 
if  we  are  told  of  a  man  who  was  so  frightened 
that  every  hair  on  his  head  turned  white,  though 
we  do  not  believe  it,  we  do  not  laugh  ;  but  if  we 
are  told  that  the  man  was  so  frightened  that 
every  hair  in  his  wig  turned  white,  it  is  ludicrous. 
The  mind  that  was  intent  on  the  story  finds  that 
the  whole  was  a  mere  nothing.  Had  Kant  pos- 
sessed the  advantage  which  Herbert  Spencer 
enjoys,  of  a  familiarity  with  the  later  results  of 
physiological  investigation,  he  might  have  antici- 
pated Mr.  Spencer's  theory  of  the  physiology  of 
laughter,  which  would  have  fitted  his  psycholog- 
icaf  explanation  perfectly.  Energy  is  roused  by 
one's  interest  in  the  story ;  and  when  one  finds 
that  it  has  no  serious  meaning,  this  energy  is 
dissipated,  as  in  Spencer's  statement.  The  dif- 
ficulty is,  however,  that  Kant  takes  a  very  limited 
view  of  the  comic.  He  seems  to  find  it  only  in 
the  jest,  as  Schopenhauer  practically  found  it 
only  in  the  blunder. 

If   Mr.   Spencer's  very  ingenious   explanation 


210  COMEDY. 

of  laughter  has  any  universal  significance,  it 
must  be  found  in  the  fact  that  the  comic  has  to 
do  with  the  form  alone,  and  not  with  the  reality 
of  things.  The  more  or  less  sudden  passage  in 
our  thought  from  substantial  relations  to  merely 
formal  ones  may,  perhaps,  leave  a  certain  amount 
of  unemployed  energy  to  find  vent  in  the  manner 
indicated. 

A  difficulty  may  remain,  however,  in  the  fact 
that  the  theory  seems  to  require  a  certain  degree 
of  suddenness  in  the  apprehension  of  the  comic. 
It  is,  indeed,  often  maintained  that  the  incongru- 
ity, if  it  is  to  excite  mirth,  must  break  upon  us 
suddenly.  No  one,  it  is  said,  ever  laughs  at  an 
old  joke.  Freshness  certainly  adds  much  to  a 
joke  ;  but  how  often  we  hear  persons  say  of  some 

incident   that   it   makes    them   laugh   whenever 

t 
they  think  of  it !     "  Then  your  worship  must  not 

tell  the  story  of  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room," 
cried  honest  Diggory,  when  Squire  Hardcastle 
told  the  servants,  whom  he  was  training  for  the 
unwonted  occasion  of  guests  at  dinner,  that  if 
he  happened  to  say  a  good  thing  or  tell  a  good 
story  at  table,  they  must  not  all  burst  out 
a-laughing  as  if  they  belonged  to  the  company. 
"Then,  ecod,  your  worship  must  not  tell  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.        211 

story  of  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room.  I  can't 
help  laughing  at  that  —  he,  he,  he  !  —  for  the 
soul  of  me.  We  have  laughed  at  that  these 
twenty  years,  —  ha,  ha,  ha !  " 

I  am  not  sure  that  this  difficulty  is  insurmount- 
able. It  may  be  that,  in  anticipation  of  the 
coming  point  of  an  old  story,  one  more  or  less 
unconsciously  stores  up  energy  for  the  laugh  at 
the  end.  This  might  be  done  by  playing  with 
one's  self  that  the  previous  incidents  are  to  be 
taken  seriously,  though  one  knows  all  the  time 
the  point  up  to  which  they  are  leading.  We  cer- 
tainly do  something  of  this  kind  in  reading  an 
old  story  that  has  a  serious  interest,  a  familiar 
play  of  Shakespeare,  for  example.  We  read  as 
if  we  did  not  know  what  was  coming,  and  are 
moved  at  the  end  as  if  we  had  never  read  it 
before.  In  this  manner  the  effect  of  suddenness 
in  a  joke  may  be  produced,  even  if  the  jest  be  an 
old  one,  and  the  explanation  of  laughter  under 
discussion  may  hold  good. 

Kant,  however,  was  not  familiar  with  the  later 
physiological  investigations,  and  thus  could  not 
use  their  results  in  the  solution  of  the  problem 
before  him.  The  explanation  that  he  gives  of 
laughter,  on  the  basis  of  his  theory  of  the  comic, 


212  COMEDY. 

may  perhaps  strike  us  as  a  little  singular.  The 
mind,  he  says,  is  expecting  to  find  something, 
and  it  finds  nothing.  In  its  surprise  it  looks 
back  to  see  if  this  be  really  so,  and  discovers 
again  that  it  is.  This  vibration  or  oscillation  of 
the  mind,  rapidly  repeated,  sets  the  body  in  mo- 
tion ;  and  hence  results  laughter,  which  physical 
process  is  all  that  Kant  recognizes  as  pleasurable 
in  the  sense  of  the  comic. 

Without  accepting  Kant's  explanation  of  laugh- 
ter, which  is  certainly  ingenious,  I  am  interested 
to  notice  how  perfectly  it  would  adapt  itself  to 
that  part  of  my  own  statement  which  I  have 
taken  from  Schopenhauer;  better,  indeed,  than 
to  Kant's  own  theories. 

According  to  this,  the  sense  of  the  comic  arises 
from  the  attempt  to  bring  together  things  that 
are  too  incongruous  to  be  combined.  The  mind 
seizes  one  and  tries  to  fit  it  to  the  other.  Failing 
in  that,  it  lets  go  the  first  and  seizes  the  second, 
which  proves  equally  impracticable.  It  flies  back 
to  the  first,  and  this  process  repeats  itself  with 
inconceivable  rapidity.  Take,  as  an  illustration, 
the  conundrum,  "  When  you  are  riding  a  don- 
key, what  fruit  do  you  resemble  ? "  The  answer 
is,  of  course,  "A  pear."  Here  begins  the  pro- 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.        213 

cess  of  which  I  spoke.  What  fruit  ?  A  pear. 
But  a  donkey  is  not  a  fruit.  It  must  mean  two 
of  us.  But  it  can't  be  two  of  us,  because  the 
question  said  what  fruit.  And  so  on  indefinitely. 
Or  we  go  a  step  further.  We  accept  the  fact 
that  the  pear  means  two  of  us.  But  who  are  the 
twe  ?  I  am  one  and  the  donkey  another.  No, 
that  cannot  be.  The  donkey  is  one  and  I  am 
another.  Worse  still.  Thus  the  process  goes 
on.  Now  the  mind,  in  this  vibration  which  I 
have  described,  must,  according  to  the  psycho- 
physiological  theories  of  Kant,  which  as  it  will  be 
remembered  I  do  not  indorse,  start  a  vibratory 
movement  among  certain  corpuscles  of  the  brain. 
This  vibration  becomes  violent  as  it  extends 
from  its  source.  It  runs  down  the  nerves  with 
that  pleasant  titillation  which  we  all  know.  Be- 
coming still  more  violent,  it  convulses  the  body, 
until  at  last  it  breaks  out  into  the  "  he,  he  "  of 
the  fool,  or  the  "  haw,  haw  "  of  the  clown. 

But  why  need  we  try  to  explain  and  justify  the 
fact  of  laughter?  According  to  the  principles 
of  natural  selection,  is  not  the  fact  enough  ? 
According  to  this  theory,  in  the  innumerable 
changes  through  which  life  passes  in  its  evolu- 
tion, all  varieties  of  form  and  action  have  at 


214  COMEDY. 

some  moment  their  opportunity.  If  they  are 
helpful  they  endure ;  if  otherwise,  they  die  out 
with  their  possessors.  I  will  venture  to  close 
this  discussion  with  an  apologue  which  may  illus- 
trate this  matter,  the  significance  of  which  will, 
I  trust,  excuse  the  levity  of  its  form.  We  may, 
in  our  thought,  go  back  to  the  moment  when  our 
apelike  progenitors  were  becoming  human.  The 
generations  succeeded  one  another  more  rapidly 
than  now  ;  and  as  the  earth  was  passing  hurriedly 
through  changes  of  temperature,  if  not  of  struc- 
ture, each  generation  may  be  supposed  to  have 
been  widely  different  from  that  which  had  pre- 
ceded. It  was  a  time  of  transition.  There  was 
an  ambition  such  as  has  not  since  then  existed 
upon  the  earth.  It  was  a  time  of  trial.  How  the 
foremost  individuals  of  one  generation  must  have 
differed  from  those  of  the  last,  or  even  from  the 
less  cultivated  of  their  own.  Think  of  the  bur- 
dens of  polite  society !  Think  of  Great-grand- 
father Ape  refusing  to  be  put  into  his  little  bed, 
and  outraging  in  many  ways  the  delicate  and  cul- 
tivated se-nsibilities  of  his  descendants  !  Think 
of  the  cares  of  housekeeping,  of  servants  caught 
wild  in  the  forest  to  be  initiated  into  the  mys- 
teries of  the  kitchen !  No  wonder  that  all  this 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE   COMIC.        215 

proved  too  much  for  these  would-be  founders  of 
a  new  order  of  life !  No  wonder  that  they 
peaked  and  pined  in  the  midst  of  their  struggles ! 
But  suddenly  there  echoed  a  strange  sound 
through  the  wilderness.  Was  it  a  cry  of  pain  ? 
It  seemed  so.  But  those  features  certainly  wore 
no  look  of  suffering.  Whenever  one  of  those 
miserable  awkwardnesses  of  which  I  spoke  oc- 
curred, this  sound  would  break  forth  with  its 
strange  but  not  unpleasing  vibrations.  The  in- 
dividual who  made  it  seemed  refreshed  and  exhil- 
arated by  what  was  crushing  the  life  out  of  all 
others.  While  they  pined  he  grew  fat.  His 
children  inherited  the  habit  which  began  with 
him,  and  with  it  inherited  his  cheerful  strength ; 
and  thus,  while  other  families  dwindled  and 
passed  away,  the  descendants  of  the  man  who 
laughed  alone  endured,  to  form  the  race  of  man 
that  laughs. 


III.   DUTY. 

THE  ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS. 

THE  moral  law  stands  among  the  manifold 
relations  of  the  world,  apparently  as  the  great 
exception.  In  other  matters  we  do  not  hesitate 
to  trace  the  connection  of  finite  cause  and  effect. 
In  regard  to  duty,  our  natural  impulse  is  to  rec- 
ognize the  presence  of  some  higher  element. 
In  practical  matters,  we  ordinarily  seek  that 
which  is  most  advantageous  to  ourselves.  In 
the  presence  of  duty,  this  personal  advantage  is 
neglected.  Thus  the  moral  law  rises  above  all 
the  entanglements  of  our  thought  and  our  life. 
It  is  not  strange  that  Kant  felt  that  here  we  are 
in  contact  with  the  absolute  reality  ;  that,  while 
everywhere  else  we  are  in  the  world  of  phenom- 
ena, in  the  moral  law  we  touch  the  substance  of 
things.  It  is  not  strange  that  this  fact,  so  im- 
pressive and  so  exceptional,  should  stimulate  the 
investigating  spirit  of  our  time ;  that  our  scien- 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.      2 1/ 

tific  explorers  should  bring  their  scaling  ladders 
and  seek  to  climb  this  awful  height,  in  order  that 
they  may  plant  there,  also,  the  flag  of  the  all- 
conquering  science. 

We  are  all  sufficiently  the  children  of  our  age 
to  sympathize  with  this  attempt.  We  must 
notice,  however,  one  point  in  which  the  investi- 
gation into  the  nature  of  the  moral  law  is  dis- 
tinguished from  inquiries  in  regard  to  other  mat- 
ters of  scientific  research.  In  this  we  must  test 
our  results  by  their  consequences.  The  moral 
law  is  one  of  the  fundamental  facts  of  our  experi- 
ence ;  and  the  object  of  the  questioner  is  to  ex- 
plain this,  not  to  disturb  it.  If  the  conclusions 
to  which  he  comes  are  such  as  to  weaken  and 
confuse  the  moral  sense,  the  very  conditions  of 
the  inquiry  are  violated.  In  other  words,  if  our 
analysis  is  correct,  it  must  be  confirmed  by  our 
synthesis.  This  assumption  is  not  merely  a 
practical  one.  It  is  a  case  in  which  the  practi- 
cal and  the  theoretical  coincide.  The  moral 
sense  is  one  of  the  ultimate  factors  of  our  nature. 
The  love  of  the  right  and  the  love  of  the  true 
share  the  sovereignty  of  our  souls.  Neither  can 
dethrone  the  other.  If  the  pursuit  of  truth  seem 
to  weaken  the  moral  sense,  it  shows  that  the  pur- 


2l8  DUTY. 

suit  has  been  following  the  wrong  trail.  This 
position  may  seem  unscientific  and  archaic.  It 
is  so,  tried  before  the  bar  of  science  alone.  Be- 
fore the  high  court  of  ultimate  appeal,  however, 
in  which  Reason  sits  as  judge,  it  is  enforced. 
Here  no  one  faculty  of  the  nature  is  permitted  to 
do  violence  to  any  other.  This  position  does  not 
justify  us  in  assuming  a  theory  to  be  true  simply 
because  it  would  give  new  sanctions  to  the  moral 
law.  It  does  justify  us  in  rejecting  as  insuffi- 
cient any  explanation  of  the  moral  impulse  that 
would  weaken  its  authority. 

A  superficial  view  of  the  facts  of  the  moral  con- 
sciousness may  easily  give  rise  to  false  and  harm- 
ful theories.  Such  a  superficial  view  naturally 
suggests  the  idea  of  a  fluctuating  and  changeful 
morality,  and  may  thus  seem  to  leave  no  place 
for  any  firm  and  enduring  basis  of  moral  rela- 
tions. Indeed,  when  we  remember  what  different 
things  are  considered  right  by  different  peoples 
and  at  different  times,  it  seems  almost  hope- 
less that  any  order  should  be  introduced  into  the 
chaos.  We  are  tempted  to  think  that  there  is 
no  right  and  no  morality.  The  Fijian  thinks  it 
his  duty  to  put  his  parents  to  death  even  while 
they  are  hardly  weakened  by  age.  In  ordinary 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.      2 19 

times,  we  are  told  not  to  lie,  not  to  steal,  and 
not  to  kill;  but,  so  soon  as  war  breaks  out,  all 
our  familiar  maxims  seem  to  count  for  nothing. 
Men  feel  it  their  duty  to  kill,  to  steal,  and  to  cir- 
cumvent. If  such  facts  do  not  prove  to  us  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  permanent  moral 
principle  in  man,  they  must  at  least  affect  our 
conception  of  this.  It  is  obvious  that  the  moral 
sense  cannot  be  regarded  as  containing  within 
itself  the  requirement  to  perform  certain  specific 
duties.  There  is  no  table  of  commandments 
written  upon  the  heart.  Either  duty,  or  what 
we  regard  as  such,  is  indeed  the  outgrowth  of 
circumstances,  and  varies  with  time,  place,  and 
condition  ;  or  else  it  is  something  which  lies  be- 
hind all  definite  rules  and  simply  takes  form  in 
these.  It  is  elastic,  not  as  yielding  to  pressure, 
affirming  itself  with  more  or  less  power  accord- 
ing to  the  difficulty  or  the  peril ;  but  elastic  in 
the  sense  that,  while  it  remains  the  same,  its 
method  of  asserting  itself  varies  according  to  the 
circumstances  to  which  it  is  to  be  applied. 

Of  course  it  would  be  easy  to  say  that  all  va- 
riation like  that  to  which  I  have  referred  is  the 
result  merely  of  an  imperfect  development  of  the 
moral  sense,  and  to  urge  that,  if  the  moral  sense 


220  DUTY. 

were  equally  developed  in  all,  the  same  standard 
of  duty  would  be  accepted  by  all.  Such  an  ex- 
planation might  apply  to  some  cases  of  diver- 
gence, but  it  would  leave  many  not  accounted  for. 

If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  uniform  principle 
of  ethics,  then  a  savage,  doing  what  he  considers 
to  be  right,  must  be  actuated  by  motives  similar 
to  those  which  actuate  us  when  we  do  what  we 
regard  as  right,  even  though  from  our  stand- 
point we  consider  what  he  does  as  in  itself  wrong, 
and  though  he  from  his  standpoint  should  con- 
demn us. 

Many  factors  have  united  in  the  development 
of  our  moral  nature,  which  cannot  be  regarded 
as  its  source.  Natural  selection  has  doubtless 
played  its  part ;  education  has  had  its  share  in 
the  work.  But  natural  selection  must  have  had 
something  with  which  to  start ;  and  education 
develops  faculties  which  it  could  not  create. 
There  must  be  certain  ultimate  principles  which 
give  to  morality  its  special  quality.  It  is  these 
which  we  are  to  seek. 

It  may  be  well,  before  entering  upon  our 
search,  to  ask  what  it  is  precisely  which  we  may 
hope  to  find.  Can  we  hope  to  discover  some 
principle  which  may  serve  in  any  given  case  as  a 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        221 

test  to  determine  what  course  of  action  is  wrong 
and  what  is  right  ?  In  regard  to  certain  strongly 
marked  contrasts,  perhaps  this  might  be  accom- 
plished. For  the  most  of  life,  however,  I  think 
that  this  would  be  hoping  too  much.  In  the 
discussion  of  the  elements  of  tragedy,  we  have 
had  really  placed  before  us,  under  another  name, 
the  sphere  in  which  duty  exists.  We  have  seen 
that  there  is  nothing  wrong  in  itself.  There  is 
no  primary  instinct  or  impulse  of  the  nature 
which  is  not,  in  itself  considered,  good.  The 
pleasure  that  is  in  some  cases  taken  in  the 
suffering  of  others  has  caused  difficulty  to  some 
students  of  ethics.  This  pleasure,  however,  I 
conceive  to  be,  not  primary  in  the  nature,  but 
secondary.  If  all  the  natural  impulses  are  right, 
the  only  wrong  is  found  in  yielding  to  one  under 
circumstances  in  which  we  should  have  yielded 
to  another  We  might  hope,  then,  to  be  able  to 
arrange  the  various  primary  impulses  in  a  hier- 
archy, according  to  which  the  lower  should  al- 
ways be  subject  to  the  higher.  We  should  thus 
have  a  mechanical  device  which  would  settle 
every  case  as  it  might  arise.  In  fact,  however, 
the  question  of  degree  is  as  important  as  that 
of  precedence.  Common  sense  and  conscience 


222  DUTY. 

must  still  be  left  to  settle  the  matter  between 
themselves.  It  is  as  impossible  to  give  definite 
rules  for  the  perfect  life  as  it  is  to  give  definite 
rules  in  accordance  \vith  which  a  beautiful  poem 
or  painting  shall  certainly  be  produced.  We 
have  a  right  to  expect,  however,  that  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  true  principles  upon  which  morality 
rests  should  strengthen  the  moral  sense,  and 
make  it  easier  to  obey  the  voice  of  duty.  If  it 
helps  the  decision  in  any  difficult  case,  it  will  be 
because  it  thus  quickens  the  moral  insight,  rather 
than  because  it  furnishes  any  hard-and-fast  sys- 
tem of  rules. 

In  approaching  our  theme,  two  questions 
should  be  distinguished  which  are  often  con- 
founded. One  of  these  questions  is,  What  is 
the  impulse  by  which  men  perform  the  acts 
which  we  call  right  ?  The  second  question  is, 
What  is  the  nature  of  the  sense  of  duty  by  which 
men  feel  an  obligation  to  perform  such  acts  ? 
The  neglect  to  notice  the  distinction  implied  by 
these  questions  has  done  much  to  confuse  the 
study  of  ethics.  Acts  that  we  know  as  right 
must  have  long  been  performed,  and  must  have 
received  a  certain  recognition,  before  the  ten- 
dency to  perform  them  was  reinforced  by  the 


THE  UL  TIM  A  TE  FAC  TS  OF  E  THICS.        223 

sense  of  obligation.  In  fact,  the  sense  of  duty 
would  seem  to  be  a  comparatively  late  develop- 
ment of  human  nature,  and  it  is  only  an  occa- 
sional element  in  the  ethical  development  of 
man.  It  may  further  be  said  that,  while  the 
sense  of  duty  implies  a  comparatively  high  de- 
velopment of  the  spirit,  yet  its  presence  also 
implies  a  certain  difficulty  in  right  doing.  It 
shows  a  lack  of  freedom  and  spontaneity  in  the 
direction  of  the  right.  A  man  who  performs  a 
righteous  act  from  a  sense  of  duty  stands  much 
higher  than  one  who  does  not  perform  it  at 
all ;  but  one  who  performs  it  because  it  seems 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  simply  be- 
cause he  wants  to,  stands  still  higher.  If  the 
sense  of  duty  involves  such  imperfection,  we 
may  naturally  ask,  Whence  comes  our  reverence 
for  it  ?  This  reverence  is  justified  by  the  fact 
that  the  feeling  of  duty  really  implies  an  advance 
in  right  doing.  It  implies  an  invasion  of  realms 
not  yet  wholly  subjugated,  and  therefore  held 
with  some  difficulty. 

All  that  I  would  now  insist  upon  is  that  we 
have  two  questions  instead  of  one.  They  are, 
indeed,  closely  connected  ;  and  the  'answer  to 
one  will  throw  light  upon  the  other.  They  de- 
mand, however,  separate  treatment. 


224  DUTY. 

We  must  first  ask,  Why  do  men  tend  to  per- 
form certain  acts  that  we  call  right  ?  and  then 
ask,  Whence  comes,  when  it  does  come,  the 
sense  of  obligation  ?  The  answer  to  the  first 
question  will  be  purely  psychological.  The  an- 
swer to  the  second  will  involve  elements  that  are 
metaphysical. 

Our  first  question  is,  then,  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  impulse  to  perform  right  actions. 

Before  proceeding  to  the  positive  answer  to 
the  question  before  us,  it  will  be  well  to  notice  a 
widespread  error  in  regard  to  the  matter.  This 
is  the  assumption  that  the  first  impulse  to  moral 
activity  was  furnished  by  religion.  This  assump- 
tion is  sometimes  made  in  the  interest  of  reli- 
gion, since  it  recognizes  this  as  the  basis  of  the 
moral  life.  Sometimes  it  is  made  in  the  interest 
of  a  scientific  explanation  of  the  facts  of  morality, 
since  the  influence  of  superstition  is  a  recognized 
force,  that  may  be  easily  regarded  as  applied  in 
this  direction.  In  either  case,  the  assumption  is 
without  foundation. 

If  anything  is  certain  in  regard  to  the  lowest 
forms  of  religion,  it  is  that  either  they  are  with- 
out any  moral  significance,  or  that  they  possess 
this  in  a  very  small  degree.  The  favor  of  the 


THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        22$ 

supernatural  beings  is  not  to  be  won  by  virtue, 
but  by  offerings  and  prayers.  So  far  as  a  future 
life  is  recognized,  there  seems  to  be  little  if  any 
difference  in  the  state  of  those  who  have  been 
good  and  those  who  have  been  evil ;  if,  indeed, 
the  terms  good  and  evil  have,  at  this  stage  of 
human  development,  any  meaning.  So  far  as 
any  difference  is  supposed  to  exist  in  regard  to 
the  state  of  spirits  after  death,  it  depends  upon 
some  merely  ritualistic  matter.  Among  the 
Tahitians,  we  are  told  that  only  the  neglect  of 
some  rite  or  ceremony  is  visited  by  the  displeas- 
ure of  the  deities  in  another  world.  "  I  never 
could  learn,"  says  Ellis,  "  that  they  expected  in 
the  world  of  spirits  any  difference  in  the  treat- 
ment of  a  kind,  generous,  peaceful  man  and  that 
of  a  cruel,  parsimonious,  and  quarrelsome  one." 
And  Cook  says  that  the  Otaheitans  do  not  sup- 
pose that  their  actions  here  in  the  least  affect 
their  future  state,  or,  indeed,  that  they  come 
under  the  cognizance  of  their  deities  at  all.  If 
anything  besides  the  fitting  service  to  the  gods 
determines  the  condition  of  the  spirit  in  the 
future  life,  it  is,  in  general,  something  that  has 
as  little  moral  significance  as  such  service.  Thus 
the  Fijians  believe  that  women  not  tatooed  would 


226  DUTY. 

have  a  hard  time  in  the  next  world.  Men  who 
had  not  slain  any  enemy  would  be  compelled  to 
beat  dirt  with  a  club.  Bachelors  had  a  particu- 
larly hard  time  getting  to  the  Fijian  paradise. 
Their  spirits  were  liable  to  be  seized  by  one  of 
the  gods,  and  killed  by  smashing  against  a  stone.1 

Not  only  did  the  gods  not  especially  favor  the 
good,  they  often  favored  what  we  should  consider 
evil.  Among  the  Fijians,  cruelty,  murder,  can- 
nibalism, treachery,  and  revenge,  we  are  told, 
were  sanctioned  by  the  gods.  This  is  evidently 
a  degradation  of  religion,  falling  below  the  zero 
point  of  ethical  indifference,  as  a  more  fully  de- 
veloped religion  rises  above  it.  It  shows,  how- 
ever, religion  to  be  affected  by  the  ethical  ideas 
of  a  people  rather  than  affecting  them.  It  inten- 
sifies these  feelings,  whatever  they  may  be. 
Through  his  religion,  the  ambition  of  a  Fijian  to 
be  a  murderer  was  increased  ;  but  it  was  the  am- 
bition itself,  common  among  the  people,  which 
procured  for  it  the  divine  sanction. 

This  relation  of  religion  to  morality  is  illus- 
trated even  among  the  more  developed  religions. 
Among  the  Vedic  hymns  there  is  some  evidence 

1  These  examples,  and  others  that  will  be  given,  are  taken 
from  the  Descriptive  Sociology-,  compiled  under  the  direction  of 
Herbert  Spencer,  a  most  admirable  and  useful  work. 


THE  ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        22 / 

of  an  ethical  content  of  the  religion.  Varuna 
represented  more  than  any  other  divinity  the 
moral  idea.  Ritual  is,  however,  in  general,  far 
more  obvious  than  sanctions  of  morality.  In  the 
Mazdean  religion,  which  was  perhaps  the  most 
ethical  of  the  older  religions,  moral  and  ceremo- 
nial injunctions  are  dwelt  upon  with  equal  force. 
In  the  Hebrew  religion,  the  ceremonial  law  holds 
a  prominent  position.  Even  in  the  ten  com- 
mandments, the  injunction  to  keep  the  Sabbath 
is  placed  among  those  which  insist  upon  love  to 
God  and  righteousness  towards  man.  In  the 
teaching  of  Jesus,  righteousness  and  religion  are 
found  each  interpenetrated  by  the  other.  There 
is  no  religion  apart  from  righteousness,  and  no 
righteousness  not  sanctioned  by  religion.  This 
high  position  religion,  however,  could  not  long 
maintain.  The  popular  belief,  even  of  the  pres- 
ent day,  while  insisting  upon  a  righteous  life, 
makes  certain  spiritual  exercises  which  have 
little  connection  with  this  of  hardly  less  impor- 
tance ;  and  beliefs,  together  with  such  exercises, 
are  supposed  to  have  much  to  do  with  the  con- 
dition of  the  spirit  in  the  life  after  death.  In  the 
Catholic  Church,  certain  forms  and  ceremonies 
are  still  believed  to  be  essential  to  salvation. 


228  DUTY. 

By  the  side  of  this  indifference  of  religion  to 
morality  among  the  lower  peoples,  we  find  the 
beginnings,  and  sometimes  beautiful  manifesta- 
tions, of  the  moral  sentiments.  These  peoples 
are,  indeed,  in  a  state  of  innocence.  Apparently 
with  little  sense  of  right  or  wrong  as  such,  the 
natural  impulses  of  the  heart,  whether  right  or 
wrong,  freely  manifest  themselves.1  Sometimes 
we  are  shocked  by  cruelty  and  sensuality,  some- 
times charmed  by  the  manifestation  of  the  most 
beautiful  traits  of  human  character.  The  Mala- 
gasy, we  read,  treat  one  another  with  more  hu- 
manity than  we  do.  There  no  one  is  miserable, 
if  it  is  in  the  power  of  his  neighbors  to  help  him. 
There  is  love,  tenderness,  and  generosity  which 
might  shame  us,  and  moral  honesty,  too.  In  the 
Congo  markets,  we  are  told,  every  transaction 
is  conducted  with  truthfulness  and  confidence. 
There  is  no  deceit  practised,  —  not  because  it  is 

1  It  is  a  state  of  things  that  is  in  part  covered  by  Ovid's  de- 
scription of  the  Golden  Age  :  — 

"  Quae  vindice  nullo 

Sponte  sua,  sine  lege,  fidem  rectumque  colebat 
Poena  metusque  aberant." 

Only  we  must  remember  that  men  also  did  wrong  without  fear 
of  punishment,  and  without  any  sense  of  wrong-doing. 


THE   ULTIMATA  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        229 

forbidden,  but  because  honorable  dealing  has  be- 
come habitual. 

I  have  not  meant  to  picture  an  idyllic  state,  in 
which  the  children  of  nature  lead  simple,  affec- 
tionate lives.  The  savage  has  terrible  vices  and 
crimes,  or  what  would  be  crimes  if  there  were  as 
yet  any  law  that  should  justify  the  term.  I  wish 
simply  to  recognize  the  fact  that  in  the  life  that 
is  the  least  developed  we  find,  side  by  side,  the 
elements,  the  warfare  between  which  forms  the 
plot  of  that  great  epic  which  we  call  history. 
We  find  the  virtues  existing  uncommanded,  and 
vice  and  wrong  existing  unforbidden.  As  yet,  so 
far  as  these  matters  are  concerned,  there  is  only 
a  certain  habit  or  custom  which,  by  a  control 
that  is  to  a  great  degree  unfelt  because  it  works 
through  individuals  as  well  as  upon  them,  shapes 
the  lives  of  men.  This  custom  which  controls  is 
itself  a  product,  and  cannot  be  used  to  explain 
that  out  of  which  it  sprang. 

We  are  now  ready  to  ask  more  directly  from 
what  part  of  our  nature  comes  the  impulse  to 
those  actions  to  which  later  we  give  the  name 
of  right.  The  first  which  I  shall  name  is  so  ob- 
vious that  it  might  hardly  seem  worth  the  nam- 
ing, but  it  is  so  fundamental  that  to  omit  it 


230  DUTY. 

would  be  to  omit  that  which  is  most  essential  in 
the  discussion.  I  mean  the  altruistic  feelings,  to 
which  the  names  "sympathy"  or  "love"  can  be 
applied  according  to  the  intensity  of  the  emotion 
which  we  would  describe.  We  find  in  the  most 
undeveloped  man  something  of  that  feeling  for 
his  fellows  which  prompts  to  kind  and  helpful 
acts.  We  find  something  of  this  even  among 
the  lower  animals.  There  is  the  self-forgetful 
care  of  the  mother  for  her  young.  There  is  the 
willingness  of  the  mother  to  meet  suffering  and 
death  for  her  young.  Darwin  tells  of  a  young 
ape  that  sprang  to  the  help  of  his  keeper  who 
was  attacked  by  a  baboon,  and  that  suffered 
wounds  in  the  unselfish  strife.  All  this  we  may 
be  told  has  no  moral  quality  whatever.  It  is 
"  mere  instinct."  When  it  is  said  that  the 
mother's  love,  for  instance,  is  mere  instinct, 
many  feel  that  we  have  given  it  a  pretty  low 
place  among  the  activities  and  impulses  of  life. 
We  must  remember,  however,  that  what  is  done 
from  instinct  is  done  without  doubt  or  hesita- 
tion ;  while  what  is  done  from  a  sense  of  duty 
alone  is  marked  by  some  degree  of  both.  From 
this  point  of  view,  what  is  done  from  the  instinct 
of  love  may  perhaps  seem  no  less  admirable  than 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        231 

that  which  is  done  from  the  so-called  higher 
motive.  At  the  stage  which  we  are  at  present 
considering,  all  that  concerns  us  is  the  obvious 
fact  that  in  sympathy  or  love  we  have  the  source 
of  the  original  impulse  to  perform  many  of  those 
acts  which  become  later  recognized  as  right. 

A  slight  examination  will  show  under  what 
various  forms  this  principle  of  love  will  manifest 
itself.  There  is  no  single  act  which  it  pre- 
scribes. Its  expression  will  vary  with  the  cir- 
cumstances of  every  case,  and  yet  more  with  the 
comprehension  of  these  circumstances.  It  will 
have  to  learn  from  experience  what  acts  are  help- 
ful and  what  are  injurious,  to  others.  From  one's 
own  experience  one  learns  what  is  pleasant  and 
what  is  painful ;  and  love  will  be  prompt  to  pro- 
duce the  pleasant  and  to  diminish  or  to  destroy 
the  painful,  so  far  as  others  are  concerned. 
Where  experience  cannot  reach,  the  result  is 
helped  out  by  theories  and  beliefs.  An  extreme 
example  is  of  the  Fijian,  of  whom  I  have  already 
spoken,  who  thought  it  proper  and  right  to  put 
his  parents  to  death.  From  his  point  of  view 
this  was  an  act  of  love.  He  believed  that  the 
bodily  state  in  which  one  dies  will  be  that  in 
which  he  enters  upon  the  life  after  death.  One 


232  DUTY. 

who  dies  weak  and  shrivelled  with  age  will,  in 
the  life  after  death,  still  "drag  out  a  ridiculous 
age  ;  "  and  so  he  put  his  parents  to  death  while 
they  were  in  full  bodily  and  mental  vigor.  They, 
on  their  part,  took  the  same  view,  and  were  glad 
to  have  the  act  accomplished.  A  highly  educated 
Chinese  mandarin,  who  was  for  a  time  connected 
with  Harvard  University  as  a  teacher,  aroused 
the  indignation  of  persons  who  had  received  pos- 
sibly exaggerated  accounts  of  the  suffering  that 
he  was  causing  to  his  young  daughter  by  subject- 
ing her  feet  to  the  pressure  practised  in  China  in 
such  cases.  He  explained,  however,  that  it  was 
an  act  of  kindness.  The  real  cruelty  would  be 
to  let  her  go  back  to  China  without  this  com- 
pression. If  her  feet  had  been  left  to  grow  to 
their  natural  size,  she  would  have  no  status  in 
the  society  to  which  she  naturally  belonged. 

There  are  among  the  savages  terrible  acts  of  a 
cruel  selfishness.  There  is  a  superstition  no  less 
cruel.  I  am  merely  indicating  the  fact  that 
there  are  circumstances  in  which  love  will  do 
what  may  seem  to  be  the  work  of  selfishness  or 
hate. 

While  a  regard  for  others  would,  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  lead  to  the  preservation  of 


THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        233 

their  lives  and  property,  there  may  come  times 
when  a  regard  for  the  common  well-being  would 
lead  to  the  taking  of  the  lives  and  property  of 
others.  This  is  the  case  in  regard  to  those  who 
have  committed  crimes  against  their  fellows. 
So  in  war,  the  regard  for  those  with  whom  one 
is  associated,  or  for  the  absolute  good  of  the 
whole,  may  lead  to  the  disregard  of  the  happiness 
and  even  of  the  lives  of  others. 

I  have  wished  merely  to  illustrate  the  fact  that 
from  one  central  principle  may  spring  acts  that 
are  utterly  divergent ;  that  there  may  be  an  abso- 
lute morality  which  does  not  consist  in  a  fixed  set 
of  rules,  but  which  manifests  itself  in  the  at- 
tempt to  reach,  by  whatever  way  may  seem  the 
best,  a  single  result. 

All  this  that  I  have  said  about  sympathy  or 
love  has  been,  in  one  way  or  another,  often  said 
before.  This  principle  has  been  made  the  basis 
of  systems  of  morality.  It  was  the  one  princi- 
ple recognized  by  Hume,  the  father  of  our  mod- 
ern utilitarianism.  It  is,  indeed,  the  principle  of 
all  forms  of  utilitarianism.  The  fault  of  many 
such  systems  consists  in  the  fact  that  they  rec- 
ognize this  principle  alone.  It  must  be  regarded 
as  one  of  the  ultimate  facts  in  ethics. 


234  DUTY. 

It  is,  however,  only  one  of  these  facts.  There 
is  a  class  of  actions,  of  fundamental  importance 
so  far  as  the  science  of  ethics  is  concerned, 
which  the  altruistic  principle  does  not  account 
for.  I  refer  to  the  impulse  to  truthfulness,  hon- 
'esty,  and  kindred  virtues.  These  sometimes 
may  spring  from  the  impulse  of  sympathy,  but 
in  many  cases  they  do  not.  An  extreme  illus- 
tration of  their  independence  of  any  sense  of 
sympathy  may  be  found  in  such  a  case  as  the 
following.  A  poor  man  owes  a  sum  of  money  to 
a  rich  neighbor.  The  sum  is  large  for  him,  but 
to  his  neighbor  it  would  be  wholly  unimportant. 
We  may  suppose,  further,  that  his  neighbor  has 
forgotten  the  debt,  and  that  no  one  else  knows 
of  its  existence.  Why  does  this  man  feel  moved 
to  pay  the  debt  ?  We  have,  as  before,  to  con- 
sider merely  what  is  taking  place  in  his  own 
mind.  It  is  not  through  sympathy  that  he  is 
moved  ;  for  the  creditor,  after  he  has  received 
the  money,  will  be  practically  no  better  off  than 
he  was  before.  It  is  not  from  any  regard  to  the 
injury  to  public  faith  which  his  failure  to  pay  the 
debt  would  involve  ;  for,  according  to  our  suppo- 
sition, no  one  but  himself  would  know  anything 
of  the  matter.  The  promise  is  fulfilled  from  a 


THE9 ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.      235 

regard  to  himself  alone.  He  feels  that  it  would 
be  unworthy  of  him  to  break  the  promise  which 
he  has  made. 

The  formalities  of  our  custom-house  may  give 
a  yet  more  striking  example.  Not  only  is  the 
duty  that  is  paid  by  each  individual  traveller  an 
inappreciable  drop  in  the  ocean  of  the  country's 
revenues  ;  so  far  as  it  may  count,  it  is  an  injury. 
The  country  surfers  from  an  excess  of  revenue. 
The  traveller  may  believe  the  whole  system  to  be 
a  mistake  and  an  evil.  How  important  is  the 
place  filled  by  utilitarian  considerations  is  shown 
by  the  laxity,  under  these  circumstances,  of 
many  persons  whose  consciences  are  strict  under 
all  others,  so  that  "  custom-house  oaths  "  have 
become  a  by-word.  That  these  considerations  do 
not  make  up  the  whole  of  morality  is  obvious 
from  the  openness  and  honesty  of  many  under 
these  exceptional  conditions. 

We  must  admit  the  importance  of  such  exam- 
ples of  honesty  and  truthfulness  to  the  public 
order.  We  must  admit  that,  if  the  principle  of 
truthfulness  should  become  decayed  in  a  single 
case,  the  chances  are  that  it  would  become 
decayed  in  many  cases.  Individual  men  and 
women  are  like  the  piles  that  uphold  some  solid 


236  DUTY. 

structure ;  the  only  safety  is  that  each  shall  re- 
main sound  throughout.  While  this  must  be 
admitted,  it  remains  none  the  less  true  that  the 
consideration  of  the  general  welfare  is  not  that 
which  prompts  the  act  of  honesty  or  truthfulness 
in  any  given  case. 

We  have,  then,  to  associate  with  the  principle 
of  sympathy  another  principle,  which  shall  hold 
equal  rank  with  it.  This  principle  we  have  now 
to  seek.  If,  without  reference  to  any  theory,  we 
should  state  in  the  most  common  language  what 
the  principle  is  which  controls  the  actions  in 
such  cases  as  I  have  supposed,  we  should  say  that 
it  is  honor.  The  terms  "altruism  "  and  "  honor  " 
stand,  however,  in  no  organic  relation  to  one 
another.  They  in  no  sense  complement  one  an- 
other, as  we  should  suppose  the  terms  that  ex- 
press the  ultimate  principles  of  ethics  would  do. 
This  leads  us  to  suspect  that  the  idea  of  honor 
may  be  reduced  to  a  more  fundamental  form. 
In  fact  the  method  of  this  reduction  is  obvious. 
When  a  man  acts  from  motives  of  honor,  he  acts 
with  some  reference  to  himself.  He  acts  as  he 
does  because  he  would  be  ashamed  to  act  other- 
wise. Thus,  while  acts  done  from  an  altruistic 
impulse  have  reference  to  others,  those  done 


THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.      237 

from  a  sense  of  honor  have  a  certain  reference 
to  one's  self.  In  other  words,  sympathy  is  a 
principle  of  self-surrender,  honor  is  one  of  self- 
assertion.  The  two  would  seem,  at  the  first 
glance,  not  merely  antithetical,  but  mutually  ex- 
clusive. Yet  they  together  form  the  two  founda- 
tion principles  of  our  moral  life. 

Honor  has  not  always  an  ethical  significance. 
It  may  sometimes  be  even  immoral.  It  is  possi- 
ble, however,  to  draw  a  line  of  sharp  distinction 
between  the  two  kinds  of  honor,  so  as  to  leave 
no  confusion  between  the  ethical  and  the  un- 
ethical. 

A  man  may  assert  himself  merely  as  one  indi- 
vidual against  another.  He  may  have  regard 
merely  to  his  own  personality.  He  may  seek 
fame  and  power.  He  may  seek  to  exalt  himself 
at  the  expense  of  others.  He  may  be  zealous  for 
the  defence  of  his  good  name.  In  all  this  he 
may  be  wrong  or  he  may  be  right.  Certainly  a 
man  is  justified  in  caring  for  his  good  name,  so 
far  as  he  takes  no  unfitting  steps  to  accomplish 
this.  A  man  has  a  right  to  regard  his  own  dig- 
nity and  not  to  suffer  himself  to  be  insulted. 
Whether  in  this  he  be  right  or  wrong,  certainly 
what  he  does  in  such  regards  has,  in  general,  no 


238  DUTY. 

ethical  worth.  A  man  may  have  a  right  to  do 
things  which  no  duty  would  demand.  We  re- 
spect a  man  who  within  proper  limits  maintains 
his  rights,  but  we  do  not  for  this  ascribe  to 
him  the  praise  of  virtue.  Such  self-assertion  is 
merely  formal.  The  form  of  personality  is  main- 
tained without  regard  to  the  content  of  the  per- 
sonality. The  man  regards  himself  merely  as  an 
individual,  without  regard  to  that  which  makes 
the  substance  of  his  nature.  From  this  point  of 
view  all  individuals  are  alike.  They  have  merely 
a  numerical  value.  The  saint  and  the  sinner, 
the  savage  and  the  man  of  culture,  each  main- 
tains himself  in  his  position,  each  tries  to  exalt 
himself,  each  tries  at  least  to  ward  off  all  undue 
aggression  and  to  protect  himself  from  insult  and 
wrong. 

Although,  from  the  point  of  view  of  pure  indi- 
viduality, all  individuals  have  equal  value,  yet 
this  is  not  the  case,  so  far  as  their  own  estima- 
tion is  concerned.  Each  tends  to  regard  himself 
as  of  special  importance.  In  some  this  prin- 
ciple of  self-exaltation  is  very  marked.  They 
are  peculiarly  susceptible  to  what  they  consider 
slights,  are  peculiarly  inclined  to  maintain  some 
exaltation  that  they  feel  is  their  proper  due. 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        239 

The  high  spirit  that  is  thus  manifested  adds, 
sometimes,  a  certain  grace  and  brilliancy  to  the 
life.  To  this  is  owing,  in  part,  the  charm  of  jthe 
days  of  chivalry.  The  one  great  end  of  life  to 
the  knight  was  to  make  and  to  keep  himself  peer- 
less. No  shade  of  dishonor  could  rest  upon  him. 
No  hint  of  shame  could  be  for  a  moment  en- 
dured. We  feel  the  fascination  of  this  frank  and 
fearless  heroism,  even  while  we  recognize  the 
fact  that  it  does  not  represent  the  highest  type 
of  life.  We  admit  that  from  it  has  grown  in 
part  that  recognition  of  the  individual  as  such 
which  marks  our  later  civilization.  We  see  its 
relationship  to  Christianity,  which  attaches  in- 
finite worth  to  the  individual.  While  the  sense 
of  personal  honor  was  so  prominent  in  chivalry, 
we  cannot  fail  to  see  in  it,  also,  traces  of  that 
higher  honor  of  which  we  shall  later  speak. 

I  have  said  that  the  sense  of  honor,  regarded 
as  merely  formal  self-assertion,  is  without  ethi- 
cal value.  This  is  true  of  it,  considered  directly 
and  in  itself  alone.  Considered  as  a  factor  in 
society,  it  is,  within  due  bounds,  hardly  less  im- 
portant than  the  altruistic  feelings  themselves. 
Though  ethically  worthless  in  itself,  it  is  indi- 
rectly the  occasion  of  results  that  are  important 


240  DUTY. 

even  from  an  ethical  point  of  view.  The  merely 
formal  self-assertion  stands  in  the  same  relation 
to.the  altruistic  impulses,  in  which  the  force  of 
repulsion  stands  to  that  of  attraction  in  the  phys- 
ical world.  The  world  could  not  exist  if  either 
of  these  elements  were  absent.  Just  as  little 
could  society  exist  if  all  men  were  wholly  al- 
truistic. While  neither  of  these  forces  could  be 
spared,  we  might  almost  fancy  that  a  society 
which  should  be  united  by  the  bonds  of  self-in- 
terest alone  would  hold  together  better  than  one 
from  which  self-interest  should  be  wholly  ex- 
cluded. It  is  self-interest  that  makes  the  person. 
It  is  the  altruistic  sentiments  that  make  him  a 
person  worthy  of  love  and  reverence.  A  man 
must  have  relations  towards  himself  before  he 
can  have  relations  towards  another.  If  every 
man  rejoiced  merely  in  his  neighbor's  joy,  whnt 
real,  original  joy  would  there  be  for  any  one  to 
rejoice  over  ? 

The  formal  self-assertion  and  the  altruistic  im- 
pulses, taken  together,  give  rise  to  the  sense  of 
justice  and  the  demand  for  it.  If  one's  altruistic 
feelings  were  perfect,  one  would  wish  that  all 
men  should  be  alike  favored.  One  would  feel  the 
privation  of  another  somewhat  as  if  it  wore  his 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        24! 

own.  Just  as,  in  regard  to  his  own  body,  a  man's 
natural  impulse  leads  him  to  seek  that  all  the 
members  should  be  protected  against  the  cold, 
each  according  to  its  special  need,  so  in  the  body 
politic  each  would  be  guided  by  a  like  instinctive 
feeling  to  strive  that  all  its  members  should  be 
made  alike  happy,  and  should  become  developed 
each  according  to  his  own  nature.  This,  how- 
ever, would  be  simply  universal  benevolence.  It 
would  not  yet  be  the  demand  for  universal  jus- 
tice. This  demand  is  suggested  by  the  coopera- 
tion of  the  formal  or  individual  sense  of  honor 
with  the  altruistic  sentiments.  A  man  resents 
any  encroachment  of  others  upon  himself.  Still 
more  does  a  man  of  honor  resent  an  insult  or  an 
indignity.  If  a  man  have  a  thoroughly  sympa- 
thetic feeling  towards  his  fellows,  he  will  extend 
this  sense  of  honor  so  as  to  cover  them.  He  will 
feel  any  attack  upon  them,  any  indignity  that  is 
offered  to  them,  or  any  encroachment  upon  the 
circle  of  what  naturally  pertains  to  each  of  them, 
as  if  it  were  directed  against  himself.  He  will 
resent  the  wrongs  of  others  as  if  they  were  his 
own.  It  is  this  sense  of  resentment,  felt  first  in 
what  concerns  one's  self,  and  extended  later  to 
include  that  which  concerns  others,  that,  in  coop- 


242  DUTY. 

eration  with  the  strictly  altrustic  feelings,  gives 
rise  to  the  sense  of  justice.  Benevolence  seeks 
to  make  common  whatever  appears  to  it  to  be 
the  best  good  ;  justice  represses  wrong.  Benev- 
olence gives;  justice  recognizes  and  defends 
rights. 

It  is,  however,  when  a  man  in  his  self-assertion 
has  regard,  not  merely  to  the  form  of  his  self- 
hood, but  to  its  content,  that  direct  ethical  value 
becomes  possible.  We  may  find  an  example  of 
this  in  the  ethical  significance  which  the  phrase 
"  noblesse  oblige  "  has  assumed.  It  is  related  of 
Winthrop  the  novelist,  that  the  thought  of  his 
ancestry  was  a  constant  incentive  to  noble  acts. 
He  felt  that  he  represented  a  line  that  had  done 
honorable  work  in  the  world.  There  is  a  family 
pride  that  would  lead  one  to  display  or  to  seek 
position  and  dignity.  When  he  thought  of  his 
family,  it  was  not  merely  as  a  family  that  he 
thought  of  it.  He  thought  of  it  as  a  family  of 
solid  worth  and  public-spirited  usefulness.  When 
he  asserted  himself,  it  was  as  a  member  of 
such  a  family  as  this.  He  asserted  himself  by 
such  acts  of  nobility  and  usefulness  as  he  felt 
were  prompted  by  his  very  blood.  This  is  what 
I  mean  by  speaking  of  a  self-assertion  which  is 


THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        243 

not  merely  formal,  but  which  involves  a  content. 
The  one  type  of  family  pride  would  seek  to  exalt 
the  family  as  a  family.  The  other  would  seek 
to  manifest  the  noble  qualities  which  the  family 
might  be  believed  to  have  possessed. 

No  man  stands  alone  in  the  world.  Each  is  a 
member  of  a  great  society.  If  one  asserts  him- 
self as  a  mere  individual,  he  fails  to  assert  him- 
self as  a  member  of  the  great  body  to  which  he 
belongs.  Take,  for  instance,  a  member  of  a 
household.  Such  a  person  may  assert  himself, 
seeking  to  get  all  the  comfort  and  good  he  can 
in  perfect  disregard  of  the  rest.  In  that  case,  he 
asserts  his  formal  individuality.  If,  however,  he 
asserts  himself  as  a  member  of  this  little  organ- 
ism, then  he  will  be  thoughtful  and  kind,  subor- 
dinating his  good  to  the  good  of  those  who  stand 
in  a  like  relation  with  himself. 

Self-assertion  will  thus  vary  according  to  the 
content  of  each  individuality.  One  person  may 
feel  himself  in  a  special  manner  the  member  of  a 
family,  another  may  feel  himself  the  member  of 
a  nation,  another  may  feel  himself  a  part  of  uni- 
versal humanity. 

What  I  wish  to  insist  upon  is,  that  in  all  these 
examples  we  have  various  aspects  of  self-asser- 


244  DUTY. 

tion.  The  loving  and  helpful  man  asserts  him- 
self as  truly  as  the  hard  and  selfish  man.  The 
difference  between  the  two  is  to  be  found  in  the 
content  of  the  self  which  each  affirms.  A  cheap 
bit  of  cynicism  is  sometimes  displayed  in  an 
assertion  based  upon  the  fact  that  the  good  man 
likes  to  do  good  just  as  the  bad  man  likes  to  do 
evil.  All  men,  it  is  said,  are  alike  selfish ;  for 
each  does  what  pleases  him  best.  The  distinc- 
tion that  has  just  been  made  shows  the  fallacy  of 
this  reasoning.  Each  is  alike  selfish,  if  we  care 
to  use  the  word  in  this  connection,  so  far  as  the 
affirmation  of  the  self  is  concerned.  They  differ 
in  the  self  that  is  thus  affirmed.  The  self  of  the 
one,  being  bound  up  in  his  own  petty  individual- 
ity, is  hardly  more  than  a  point ;  the  self  of  the 
other  broadens  and  includes  the  lives  about  him. 
It  is  not  to  the  act  of  self-assertion,  it  is  to  the 
self  which  is  asserted,  that  we  give  our  praise  or 
blame. 

To  this  self-assertion  I  have  given  the  name 
of  honor.  The  rightfulness  of  this  name  may 
easily  be  shown.  It  is  obvious  in  the  case  of 
the  merely  formal  self-assertion  in  which  a  man 
insists  upon  recognition  or  repels  an  insult.  The 
use  of  the  term  "honor"  is  less  fitting  where  the 


THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        245 

self  that  is  affirmed  consists  merely  of  the  pas- 
sions and  greeds  of  the  nature.  It  becomes  fit- 
ting again  in  regard  to  that  larger  content  of  self 
of  which  I  have  spoken.  A  man  who  is  con- 
scious that  he  is  not  a  merely  abstract  being, 
standing  in  and  for  himself ;  who  feels  that  in  the 
fibres  of  his  life  are  intertwined  the  fibres  of 
other  lives,  so  that  in  affirming  himself  he  af- 
firms these  larger  relations,  and  in  affirming 
these  he  affirms  himself,  —  such  a  man  feels  that 
to  fail  in  any  act  of  kindness  and  helpfulness 
would  be  foreign  to  his  nature.  It  would  be 
beneath  him.  His  sense  of  honor  forbids  him 
to  stoop  to.  anything  selfish,  petty,  or  mean. 

It  may  be  thought  that  in  using  the  words 
"  unworthy  "  and  "beneath  "  we  have  introduced 
ethical  conceptions  foreign  to  the  facts  upon 
which  our  analysis  has  been  based.  Why,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  mere  self-assertion,  should 
the  idea  of  worthiness  be  introduced  ?  Why 
should  not  a  man  feel  simply  that  an  emotion  or 
an  act  is  foreign  to  him  ?  Whence  comes  the 
thought  that  it  is  beneath  him,  so  that  by  stoop- 
ing to  it  he  would  feel  himself  dishonored?  The 
sense  of  honor  or  of  dishonor  in  these  relations 
comes  from  the  recognition  of  the  greater  or  less 


246  DUTY. 

fulness  of  the  life.  The  feeling  is  based  upon 
a  quantitative  difference.  The  rich  man  who 
becomes  suddenly  poor,  the  man  of  public  or 
princely  stand  who  becomes  suddenly  reduced  to 
a  position  of  mediocrity,  may  have  a  sense  of 
mortification.  This  results  from  the  fact  that 
they  find  their  lives  so  circumscribed  in  compari- 
son to  their  former  experience.  Before,  their 
influence,  their  control,  their  recognition,  had 
extended  far.  Their  lives  had  each  a  thousand 
tributaries.  Now,  each  life  stands  in  the  narrow- 
ness of  its  petty  self.  In  like  manner,  the  opu- 
lent or  royal  soul,  that  has  felt  itself  to  be  one 
with  the  great  human  life  about  it,  would  feel 
itself  narrowed  and  thus  dishonored  by  any  act 
through  which  it  should  cut  itself  off  from  these 
larger  relations.  In  this  sense  it  is  that  we  may 
speak  of  stooping  to  a  selfish  act,  or  may  say  that 
such  an  act  is  not  only  foreign  to  the  nature,  but 
is  unworthy  of  it  and  beneath  it.  We  are  apt  to 
speak  of  the  wickedness  of  sin.  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  would  not  be  as  true  and  more  effective 
if  we  should  speak  oftener  of  the  meanness  of  it. 
We  have  thus  far  considered  illustrations  of 
honor,  in  the  ethical  use  of  that  word,  which  in- 
volve actions  of  the  same  sort  as  those  which 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        247 

are  prompted  by  sympathy  or  love.  In  such 
cases,  this  latter  principle  is,  in  general,  the  mov- 
ing power.  Men-  perform  these  altruistic  acts 
from  altruistic  motives.  The  sense  of  honor,  as 
we  have  described  it,  hardly  makes  itself  felt. 
In  cases,  however,  where  the  altruistic  feeling 
may  not  be  quite  strong  enough  to  produce  a  re- 
sult, the  feeling  of  honor  may  come  to  its  sup- 
port. A  man  may  hesitate  to  take  the  trouble 
or  to  bear  the  burden  that  is  required  to  meet 
some  rightful  demand  upon  his  time  or  strength. 
Then,  suddenly,  he  may  think  that  he  should  be 
ashamed  of  himself  if  he  failed  ;  and  the  pride 
of  self-assertion  may  accomplish  that  to  which 
sympathy  alone  was  not  quite  equal. 

There  are,  however,  cases  in  which  the  sense 
of  honor  stands  alone.  It  was,  indeed,  such  as 
these  that  first  made  us  feel  the  need  of  comple- 
menting the  altruistic  feelings  by  this  additional 
motive.  I  refer  to  the  impulse  to  truthfulness 
and  honesty,  when  these  might  cost  the  actor 
dear,  and  would  really  benefit  no  one  else.  In 
regard  to  such  instances,  we  are  in  the  habit  of 
using  the  term  "honor."  A  business  man  who 
will  not  stoop  to  fraud,  a  man  whose  word  may 
be  accepted  as  confidently  as  another  man's 


248  DUTY. 

bond,  —  these  we  call  honorable  men.  They 
have  a  sense  of  honor  which  controls  their  lives. 
We  have  then  to  ask,  How  does  this  use  of  the 
word  "  honor  "  agree  with  our  former  use  of  it  ? 
In  what  sense  is  the  honor  of  integrity  equiva- 
lent to  self-assertion  ?  The  answer  is  obvious.  A 
man  of  honor  feels  that  his  spoken  word  is  a  parf 
of  himself.  This  stubbornness  of  self-assertion 
must  not  be  confounded  with  the  self-assertion 
with  which  a  man  may  obstinately  persist  in  his 
own  course,  or  in  the  accomplishment  of  certain 
ends  which  he  has  set  before  himself,  or  the 
disappointment  with  which  he  sees  the  failure  of 
his  plans.  The  feeling  of  a  man  at  the  thought 
of  breaking  his  word  is  not  that  of  a  general 
at  the  thought  of  being  driven  back  from  a  posi- 
tion that  he  has  taken.  A  man's  plans,  his  suc- 
cess and  failures  in  the  world,  the  riches  that  he 
may  gain  or  lose,  —  these  are  all  outside  of  him- 
self. He  may  be  mortified  that  he  has  not  had 
wisdom  or  strength  to  carry  out  his  purposes, 
that  he  has  been  outwitted  or  overpowered.  All 
this,  however,  is  not  akin  to  the  shame  which 
one  feels  at  the  thought  of  a  broken  word;  for 
the  promise  was  a  part  of  himself,  and,  when  he 
is  false  to  it,  he  is  false  to  himself. 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        249 

Another 'aspect  of  the  case  is  even  more  im- 
portant. Truthfulness  is  the  solidity  of  the  social 
structure.  We  have  seen  that  the  undetected 
falsehood  of  the  individual  would  not  affect  this. 
The  man  of  honor  is,  however,  ashamed  to  grant 
himself  a  laxity  that  he  denies  to  others.  In  af- 
firming himself  as  a  member  of  the  social  order, 
he  affirms  all  the  obligations  which  rest  upon  the 
members  of  this  order. 

What  has  been  said  of  truthfulness  has  been 
with  special  reference  to  the  keeping  of  prom- 
ises. The  considerations  adduced  apply  with 
less  force  to  the  speaking  of  truth  in  regard  to 
past  or  present  facts.  It  is  very  natural,  there- 
fore, to  find  that  men  are  often  very  strict  in  ful- 
filling engagements,  and  in  recognizing  the  rights 
of  property,  who  are  very  lax  so  far  as  truth- 
speaking  in  general  is  concerned.  Falsehood, 
however,  involves  a  granting  to  one's  self  an  in- 
dulgence that  one  would  hesitate  to  grant  freely 
to  all  the  world.  In  case  one  would  grant  the 
indulgence  to  all  the  world,  as  indeed  we  do  in  re- 
gard to  many  minor  matters,  the  sense  of  honor 
is  not  aroused  in  the  matter.  Our  business  here 
is  not  to  settle  cases  of  casuistry,  but  simply  to 
show  that  the  sense  of  honor,  and  the  truthful- 


250  DUTY. 

ness  that  results  from  this,  stand  in  direct  rela- 
tion to  the  demands  which  we  make  upon  others. 

In  connection  with  the  sense  of  honor  as  man- 
ifested in  honesty  and  truthfulness,  we  may  con- 
sider it  in  reference  to  the  vices  that  degrade  a 
man.  One  who  takes  a  true  view  of  himself 
sees  the  various  elements  of  his  nature  to  exist 
in  certain  relations  of  superiority  and  subordi- 
nation. He  sees  that  he  is  really  himself,  really 
a  man,  so  long  as  this  relation  is  maintained. 
If  the  body  assumes  supremacy  over  the  spirit, 
if  the  passions  control  the  reason,  the  proper 
subordination  is  lost.  The  man  is  no  longer 
himself.  He  no  longer  asserts  himself.  He  is 
not  a  man,  for  he  has  assimilated  himself  to  the 
beast.  This  degradation  his  sense  of  honor  for- 
bids. 

The  sense  of  honor,  as  I  have  thus  described 
it,  belongs  to  a  comparatively  late  period  of  de- 
velopment. In  its  earliest  form  it  is  as  simple 
and  unconscious  as  is  the  altruistic  sentiment. 
One  keeps  his  word,  for  instance,  as  naturally  as 
one  performs  an  act  of  kindness.  The  savage 
would  seem  to  have  no  more  shame  at  a  lie  than 
at  an  act  of  cruelty.  Yet  he  may  at  times  keep 
his  word  at  some  cost  to  himself,  just  as  he  may 


THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS    OF  ETHICS.        251 

at  times  do  an  act  of  kindness  at  some  cost  to 
himself.  It  is  this  honesty  that  later  becomes 
developed  into  the  sense  of  honor,  just  as  it  is 
this  more  or  less  occasional  kindness  which  later 
becomes  developed  into  the  altruistic  sentiment. 
Both  originated  independently  of  law  or  religion 
and  independently  also  of  that  custom  or  public 
sentiment  for  which  they  furnish  the  basis. 

If  this  incipient  altruism  and  this  incipient 
sense  of  honor  are  natural  to  man,  why,  it  may 
be  asked,  do  they  not  manifest  themselves  more 
uniformly  and  more  persistently  ?  To  this  it 
must  be  answered  that,  though  they  are  natural, 
yet  they  do  not  constitute  man's  whole  nature. 
With  this  altruism  and  this  honor,  in  the  highest 
sense  of  the  term,  is  associated  the  formal  sense 
of  honor,  or,  at  this  lowest  stage  of  development, 
the  formal  self-assertion.  From  the  necessities 
of  the  case,  this  develops  earlier  than  the  others  ; 
and  it  may  often  be  found  in  collision  with  them. 
The  instinct  of  self-preservation  in  its  simplest 
form, — the  instinct,  that  is,  of  preserving  one's 
self  as  an  individual,  that  instinct  which  man 
shares  with  the  brute,  and  even  with  the  plant 
and  the  rock,  — this  is  the  root  upon  which  the 
existence  of  the  individual  and  the  race  depends. 


DUTY. 

It  is  long  before  this  instinct  of  self-preservation 
attaches  itself  to  the  content  rather  than  to  the 
form  of  the  life.  Perhaps  we  should  say,  rather, 
that  the  content  which  it  first  embraces  is  the 
comfort  and  pleasure  of  life.  Of  these  the  altru- 
istic feelings  and  the  higher  sense  of  honor 
would  often  demand  the  sacrifice.  It  is  not 
strange,  therefore,  that  the  manifestation  of 
them  should  be  intermittent. 

We  have  considered  the  psychological  ele- 
ments that  prompt  to  the  actions  which  we  rec- 
ognize to  be  right.  We  have  as  yet  not  faced 
the  question,  Whence  comes  the  sense  of  obliga- 
tion to  do  the  right,  and  whence  comes  the  re- 
proach of  conscience  when  we  have  done  wrong  ? 
This,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  the  second 
question  to  which  we  proposed  to  seek  an  an- 
swer. 

If,  for  instance,  we  consider  the  altruistic  sen- 
timents, the  thought  of  the  suffering  of  another 
may  give  us  pain.  This  is  sufficiently  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  of  sympathy,  but  sympathy  does 
not  explain  to  us  whence  come  the  special  pain 
and  self-reproach  when  we  think  that  we  caused 
the  suffering.  It  explains  the  shock  which  the 
sight  of  death  might  give  us  ;  it  does  not  explain 


THE  ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.        253 

the  horror  of  a  murderer's  remorse.  So,  too,  we 
may  understand  why,  other  things  being  equal, 
one  should  speak  the  truth  rather  than  tell  a  lie. 
We  see  no  reason  for  the  condemnation  with 
which  one  visits  himself  for  an  act  of  dishonesty. 
Unquestionably,  external  influences  have  had 
much  to  do  with  developing  this  sense  of  obliga- 
tion. What  one  has  been  taught  from  one's 
childhood  to  do,  what  one's  race  has  been  taught 
through  countless  generations  to  do,  it  is  easy  to 
see  would  tend  to  produce  something  like  the 
sense  of  obligation.  Especially  would  this  be 
the  case  when  such  teaching  had  been  rein- 
forced by  the  sanctions  of  religion  and  by  legal 
enactment.  It  is  difficult  to  disentangle  these 
influences  from  others  that  may  have  cooperated 
with  these.  The  sense  of  duty  is,  however,  qual- 
itatively unlike  all  other  impulses.  Men  are 
trained  also,  and  the  generations  of  men  are 
trained,  in  other  ways  and  to  other  results. 
These  results  cannot  be  confounded  with  the 
moral  sense.  The  maxims  of  prudence  have 
been  urged  side  by  side  with  those  of  justice  and 
benevolence ;  but  a  man  who  violates  the  one 
calls  himself  a  fool,  while  one  who  violates  the 
other  reproaches  himself  with  wrong-doing.  The 


254  DUTY. 

pain  that  comes  from  the  violation  of  the  cus- 
toms of  society  may  be  as  sharp  as  a  pang  of 
conscience.  It  can,  however,  never  be  con- 
founded with  this. 

From  the  nature  of  the  sense  of  obligation  and 
of  conscience,  we  should  expect,  further,  that 
they  should  stand  in  some  direct  relation  to  the 
original  impulse  to  which  they  give  sanction. 
The  reproach  of  conscience  which  adds  to  this 
impulse  the  authority  of  a  law  must  in  some  way 
be  the  result  of  this  impulse.  The  condemna- 
tion is  that  one  did  not  yield  to  this  impulse.  It 
is  thus,  as  we  might  say,  the  rejected  impulse 
itself  that  turns  back  upon  him  who  neglected 
it,  and  utters  its  reproach.  It  thus  reveals  itself 
in  its  deeper  and  truer  nature.  What  seemed  a 
mere  impulse  among  other  impulses  is  found  to 
have  its  root  deep  in  the  nature  of  the  spirit,  per- 
haps even  to  penetrate  through  this,  to  pass  be- 
yond the  individual,  and  to  become  one  with  the 
root  by  which  he  himself  is  bound  to  that  larger 
life  of  which  he  is  a  part. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  in  this  connection 
that  often  the  sense  of  obligation  does  not  make 
itself  felt  until  the  wrong  act  has  been  com- 
mitted. Indeed,  it  is  probable  that  in  general 


THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.       255 

the  power  of  the  law  of  duty  is  first  felt  through 
its  penalties  ;  that  the  verdict,  This  oughtest 
thou  to  have  done,  or  This  oughtest  thou  to  have 
left  undone,  is  heard  before  the  command,  This 
shalt  thou  do,  or  This  shalt  thou  leave  undone. 
It  is  in  the  light  of  an  offended  conscience  that 
one  'first  reads  the  commandments  of  the  law. 
Fichte  maintains  that  such  was  the  nature  of  the 
development  of  the  moral  sense.  Men  learned 
what  was  right  through  the  inner  condemnation 
which  they  experienced  when  they  had  done  what 
is  wrong.  After  each  experience  of  this  kind, 
the  memory  of  the  condemnation  became  the 
utterance  of  the  law.  This  moral  development 
is  an  advance  along  the  line  of  least  resistance. 
It  is  found  that  conscience  interposes  its  barrier 
as  soon  as  men  wander  into  any  course  but  one. 
Thus  a  boy  thoughtlessly  throws  a  stone  at  a 
bird  and  kills  it.  In  many  cases  of  the  kind,  the 
boy  is  indifferent  as  to  the  result.  In  others,  so 
soon  as  he  holds  the  dead  body  of  the  bird  in 
his  hand,  his  joy  is  changed  to  horror  and  re- 
morse. He  has  learned  a  lesson  for  a  lifetime. 
A  striking  exemplification  of  the  same  process 
is  found  in  Browning's  poems,  entitled  "  Before  " 
and  "  After." 


2f6  DUTY. 

This  does  not  mean  that  one  must  commit  all 
the  sins  in  the  Decalogue  in  order  to  realize  their 
sinfulness.  A  single  example  may  have  a  multi- 
tude of  applications.  One  may  learn  the  lesson 
through  condemnation  of  another,  as  well  as 
through  condemnation  of  one's  self.  The  re- 
sults of  the  experience  of  the  past  are  in  some 
sense  inherited  ;  while  imagination  may,  in  some 
degree,  replace  the  actual  experiment. 

In  seeking  the  simplest  form  which  the  sense 
of  obligation  may  assume,  we  need  then  to  look 
more  carefully  at  the  elements  of  love  and  honor 
which  we  have  already  recognized.  Love  seems 
to  us  so  natural  a  thing  that  we  often  fail  to  see 
the  real  mystery  of  it.  A  man  seems  shut  up  in 
himself.  He  has  his  pains  and  his  pleasures,  his 
hopes  and  his  fears.  Suddenly,  we  find  him 
moved  by  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  another 
more  than  by  his  own,  filled  with  an  anxiety  for 
another  greater  than  the  care  with  which  he  re- 
gards himself.  This  phenomenon  is  sometimes 
explained  by  the  fact  of  what  may  be  called  im- 
itativeness.  When  one  sees  another  suffering 
from  a  wound,  one  has  an  incipient  feeling  of 
pain,  as  if  one  were  suffering  from  a  like  wound. 
Thus,  by  a  kind  of  reflection,  we  take  the  joys 


THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS. 

and  the  sorrows  of  another  life  into  our  own. 
This  fact  does  not,  however,  explain  that  power 
of  sympathy  by  which  we  suffer  not  only  with 
another,  but  for  him.  It  might  explain  why  we 
should  hate  a  sufferer  the  sight  of  whom  brings 
us  pain  ;  it  does  not  show  why  we  should  love 
him.  There  are  indeed  persons  who  do  feel  a  cer- 
tain anger  towards  the  unfortunate.  Miss  Cobbe 
gives  an  example  of  this  kind  in  the  story  of 
a  child  who  fell,  I  think,  from  a  bed,  and  burst 
into  loud  crying  at  the  pain  which  resulted  from 
the  fall.  Another  child  flew  at  it  angrily,  and 
began  to  beat  it.  Such  sympathy  as  has  been 
described  may  lead  to  attempts  to  relieve  others 
because  thereby  one  relieves  himself.  That 
strange  metamorphosis,  however,  in  which  an- 
other's pain  becomes  our  own,  and  our  own  sor- 
row is  that  of  another,  in  which  we  lose  all  con- 
sciousness of  ourselves,  and  feel  only  the  gladness 
or  the  grief  of  another,  —  all  this  mere  imitative 
sympathy  cannot  explain. 

The  truth  is  that  no  one  of  us  is  merely  an 
individual.  The  altruistic  feelings  are  as  natural 
as  the  selfish  feelings,  even  if  they  are  in  most 
cases  less  strong.  I  have  called  this  stretching 
of  our  life  beyond  ourselves,  this  setting  of  the 


258  DUTY. 

centre  of  our  life  in  another,  a  mystery.  It  is  so 
merely  from  the  point  of  view  of  our  individual- 
istic and  atomistic  theories  of  life.  It  is  no  mys- 
tery to  the  heart  itself,  which  finds  in  it  only  its 
natural  existence.  It  is  no  mystery  to  a  more 
profound  philosophy,  to  which  the  words  "  mere 
individual  "  have  no  meaning.  There  is  no  mere 
individual,  any  more  than  there  is  a  mere  leaf  on 
a  tree.  We  are  the  manifestations  of  a  life  larger 
than  that  of  any  individual,  a  life  that  lives  in 
the  lives  about  us,  so  that  we  may  feel,  in  a  cer- 
tain sense  and  to  a  certain  degree,  one  with  them 
as  with  it.  In  this  fact  we  find,  as  I  conceive,  a 
source  of  the  sense  of  obligation  and  of  the  con- 
demning power  of  conscience. 

Conscience  implies  something  broader  and 
larger  than  our  individual  lives.  In  the  sense  of 
obligation,  we  feel  the  presence  and  the  power  of 
this  larger  reality.  This  presence  and  power, 
which  give  their  peculiar  significance  to  the 
sense  of  duty,  are  often  regarded  as  implying  by 
necessity  a  recognition  of  God.  This,  doubtless, 
is  in  some  sense  implied  in  the  facts  under  con- 
sideration ;  but  it  is,  I  conceive,  a  mistake  to 
affirm  that  duty  and  conscience  necessarily  im- 
ply a  conscious  recognition  of  the  divine  pres. 


-    THE   ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.      259 

ence.  They  do  not  imply  the  conscious  recogni- 
tion of  any  metaphysical  or  theological  principle. 
They  imply  simply  that  the  life  of  the  spirit  is 
weighted  by  something  vaster  than  itself,  some- 
thing in  which  it  is  somehow  bound  up,  but  from 
which,  in  wrong-doing,  it  has  in  a  sense  separated 
itself.  This  vaster  somewhat  I  conceive  to  be, 
in  its  simplest  form,  that  common  life  of  which 
the  life  of  each  is  partaker.  One  is  drawn  into 
harmony  with  that,  somewhat  as  the  world,  by 
the  power  of  attraction,  is  drawn  into  harmony 
with  the  other  worlds  which  in  connection  with 
it  makes  a  common  system.  When  one  resists 
the  power  of  this  attraction,  one,  so  far  as  it  is 
possible,  isolates  himself  from  this  common  life. 
He  shuts  himself  off  into  the  outer  darkness. 
There  is  no  real  solitude  but  that  which  one 
makes  for  one's  self.  Others  may  wrong  and 
hate  a  man ;  but,  if  his  heart  be  true  to  them, 
the  community  is  still  unbroken.  When  he 
shuts  himself  off  by  selfishness  or  hate,  the  sepa- 
ration is  more  real.  The  man  that  is  full  of  his 
own  schemings  may  not  heed  this  at  the  mo- 
ment, but  the  time  may  come  when  he  will  feel 
the  awfulness  of  the  solitude.  In  wrong-doing, 
one  turns  thus,  not  only  against  himself,  but 


260  DUTY. 

against  that  larger  self  in  which  is  found  his  true 
being.  It  is  himself  against  the  universe  of 
spiritual  life.  By  such  illustrations  as  these  we 
may  understand  something  of  the  weight  of  the 
obligation  and  the  terror  of  the  condemnation. 
We  can  understand  why  the  obligation  is  not  felt 
when  one  follows  gladly  the  attraction  of  his 
nature,  and  why  one  recognizes  its  power  so 
soon  as  one  hesitates  to  obey  it. 

What  is  true  of  sympathy  is  true  also  of  honor, 
in  the  ethical  sense  of  that  word.  One  who  in 
private  refuses  to  be  bound  by  the  principles 
which  he  is  joining  to  enforce  upon  others  sets 
himself  apart  from  them  in  a  little  world  of  his 
own,  if  that  can  be  called  a  world  in  which  he 
stands  alone.  He  who  deceives  sets  up  a  barrier 
between  himself  and  those  about  him.  He  who 
fails  in  his  agreement  has  cut  one  of  the  bonds 
which  binds  him  to  his  kind.  He  who  yields  to 
his  lower  passions  degrades  not  only  his  own  life, 
but  that  common  life  of  which  his  is  the  manifes- 
tation. 

The  vague  unconscious,  or  undefined,  sense  of 
this  larger  life  is  thus,  as  I  conceive,  the  source 
of  the  sense  of  obligation  and  of  repentance  and 
of  remorse.  It  first  manifests  itself  in  the  im- 


THE    ULTIMATE  FACTS  OF  ETHICS.       26 1 

pulses  to  kind  and  honorable  acts,  and  later,  as  it 
has  gathered  strength,  adds  to  these  impulses  its 
own  authority. 

I  have  thus  considered  simply  the  ultimate 
facts  of  ethics.  Many  influences  cooperate  with 
these.  There  is  the  force  of  education,  of  tradi- 
tion, of  law.  Above  all,  there  is  the  force  of  reli- 
gion. My  purpose  has  made  it  necessary  to  con- 
sider the  facts  of  morality  apart  from  this.  The 
relation  in  which  morality  stands  to  religion,  and 
the  power  which  religion  adds  to  it,  form  a  theme 
too  vast  to  be  more  than  named  in  this  connec- 
tion. I  will  refer  only  to  the  sanction  which 
even  the  lower  forms  of  religion  come  in  time  to 
lend  to  the  laws  of  righteousness,  until,  at  last, 
when  religion  and  morality  have  become  abso- 
lutely interfused,  the  nature  of  both  is  trans- 
formed, and  the  moral  law  appears  in  the  recog- 
nized majesty  of  Divinity. 


THE   NEW   ETHICS. 

WE  have  seen  that  the  fundamental  principles 
of  ethics  remain  the  same,  while  the  application 
of  them  may  vary  indefinitely.  This  variation 
results  in  part  from  a  change  of  circumstances, 
and  yet  more  from  a  change  in  the 'method  of 
interpreting  circumstances.  Thus  the  ethics  of 
one  age  may  be,  both  in  form  and  in  practical 
results,  very  different  from  that  of  another.  At 
the  present  day,  we  hear  often  of  the  "new 
ethics."  The  words  imply  the  belief  that  a 
transformation  such  as  has  been  referred  to  is 
now  being  accomplished  ;  that,  in  some  sense  or 
other,  the  morality  of  the  present  age  is  assum- 
ing a  type  different  in  some  respects  from  any 
that  has  been  recognized  in  the  past.  Next  in 
importance,  then,  to  the  study  of  the  absolute 
principles  of  morality,  is  that  of  the  form  which 
these  principles  are  taking  on  in  the  generation 
in  which  we  live. 

Among  the  phrases  that  have  sprung  from  our 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  263 

modern  thought  and  life,  there  is  none  that 
seems  to  most  so  strange  and  ominous  as  this 
which  speaks  of  a  new  morality.  Men  are  slowly 
accustoming  themselves  to  novelty  in  other 
things.  All  things  else — the  forms  of  govern- 
ment, even  the  forms  of  religion  —  concern  the 
superstructure  ;  morality  is  the  foundation.  Dis- 
turb anything  else,  and  the  building  may  still 
stand  ;  disturb  this,  and  the  whole  falls  in  ruin. 
Beneath  a  building  of  wood  or  stone  one  may 
place  screws  and  hold  it  safely  poised,  while  the 
underpinning  is  adjusted  or  even  changed.  Sci- 
ence, the  result  of  ages  of  experience,  may  insure 
the  safety  of  the  new  foundation.  But  what 
power  shall  hold  poised  the  great  structure  of 
society  while  its  foundation  is  renewed,  and  what 
science  can  assure  us  of  the  stability  of  supports 
as  yet  untried  ? 

The  wise  counsel  of  the  preacher  Robertson 
has  comforted  many  a  bewildered  soul.  No  mat- 
ter, he  said  in  effect,  how  one  may  doubt  in  re- 
gard to  spiritual  matters  ;  so  long  as  one  holds 
fast  to  moral  principle,  one  is  safe.  But  how  if 
this  last  support  fails  ?  If  the  right  gives  way 
beneath  the  feet  of  him  who  hoped  that  he  was 
on  the  eternal  rock,  what  help  or  hope  remains  ? 


264  DUTY. 

And  to  many  the  new  morality  seems  like  no 
morality. 

This  dread  is  heightened  by  the  immoralities 
of  the  time.  When  one  meets  example  after 
example  of  brutality,  which  its  nearness,  perhaps 
also  its  comparative  rarity,  makes  appear  almost 
unprecedented,  and  of  financial  untrustworthi- 
ness  in  men  who  had  been  most  loved  and  hon- 
ored, one  is  tempted  to  hold  the  new  ethics 
responsible  for  it  all.  Indeed,  without  deciding 
the  questions  at  issue  between  the  new  and  the 
old,  we  may  admit  some  reason  for  this  fear  of 
change.  Even  if  the  old  were  no  better  than 
the  new,  the  period  of  transition  might  be  one 
of  license. 

In  the  ages  of  the  past,  we  find  traces  of  a  like 
dread.  Prominent  among  the  charges  brought 
by  Aristophanes  against  Socrates  was  that  of 
teaching  a  new  morality.  The  father  in  the  play 
sends  his  son  to  Socrates  that  he  may  learn  some 
power  of  sophistry  by  which  he  can  outwit  his 
creditors  ;  but  he  is  disgusted  when  the  son  learns 
from  the  same  teacher  an  -art  which  renders  of 
no  effect  his  own  paternal  authority,  and  which, 
by  a  reversal  of  the  time-honored  relation  be- 
tween parent  and  child,  forces  the  old  man  to 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  26$ 

submit  to  be  flogged  by  the  young  representa- 
tive of  the  new  ethics. 

But  this  very  example  suggests  another  aspect 
of  the  case.  Socrates  taught,  indeed,  a  new  mo- 
rality ;  his  contemporaries  were  rilled  with  dread 
and  anger;  but  the  fresh  foundation  which  he 
laid  has  been  that  upon  which  modern  society 
has  found  rest.  And  was  not  Jesus  the  teacher 
of  a  new  morality  ?  "  Ye  have  heard  that  it  hath 
been  said  by  them  of  old  time ;  but  I  say  unto 
you,"  —  such  was  the  form  of  his  teaching.  It 
was  a  new  morality,  setting  itself  up  proudly  and 
confidently  against  the  old. 

The  theme,  then,  is  a  grave  one.  It  concerns 
a  matter  where  every  change  is  full  of  peril ;  yet 
such  a  change  in  great  epochs  of  the  past  has 
given  new  stability  to  human  society,  —  has  en- 
abled it  to  rest  secure  through  revolutions  in 
thought  and  life.  No  place  is  here  for  rash  ex- 
periment ;  but  at  the  same  time  there  is  no  place 
for  a  prejudice  that  shall  condemn  absolutely 
and  unheard. 

The  theme  has  other  difficulties.  The  new 
morality  is  something  as  yet  incomplete.  It  is 
as  yet  largely  tentative.  It  presents  itself  under 
various  forms  and  in  various  degrees.  Theories 


266  DUTY. 

of  morality,  designed  to  illustrate,  to  support,  or 
to  complete  the  new  ethics,  have  multiplied 
themselves  in  these  latter  days  to  an  almost  in- 
credible extent.  At  the  first  glance  it  seems 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  determine  to  what 
the  name  actually  belongs.  A  more  careful  ob- 
servation shows,  however,  that  beneath  all  these 
theories,  and  common  to  them  all,  are  cer- 
tain well-defined  principles.  These  have  their 
marked  characteristics.  They  may  be  easily 
and  sharply  distinguished  from  the  principles  of 
what  I  must,  for  the  sake  of  the  antithesis,  call 
the  old  ethics.  It  is  these  principles  that  I  have 
now  to  present  and  to  illustrate. 

In  entering  upon  this  discussion,  I  wish  it  un- 
derstood that  it  is  not  my  object  to  present, 
under  the  name  of  "  The  new  morality,"  my  own 
ethical  views.  My  object  is,  to  present  a  study 
of  one  aspect  of  the  thought  and  life  of  the  age 
in  which  we  live,  —  something  which  is  far  more 
important  than  the  views  of  any  individual.  The 
terms  by  which  I  shall  describe  this  may  seem 
to  some  terms  of  praise,  and  to  others  of  blame. 
They  are  intended  as  neither.  My  aim  is  to  ap- 
proach the  theme  with  historical  or  even  judicial 
impartiality.  But  though  this  simply  historical 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  267 

statement  is  my  primary  object,  I  shall,  before 
concluding,  attempt  to  estimate  the  worth  of  the 
new  morality,  and  to  determine  to  what  extent, 
if  at  all,  it  is  destined  to  replace  the  old. 

The  first  contrast  between  what  we  must  call 
the  old  ethics  and  the  new,  and  perhaps  the  most 
important  of  all,  is  that  the  old  morality  is  abso- 
lute, while  the  new  is  relative.  According  to 
the  old,  the  question  as  to  why  the  right  is  right 
has  no  place.  The  right  is  right,  simply  because 
it  is  right.  The  new  is  not  content  with  this 
simple  statement.  It  will  go  behind  this  abso- 
lute claim.  It  will  demand  its  credentials  of  this 
absolute  lawgiver.  It  asks,  not  in  the  spirit  of 
rebellion  but  in  that  of  scientific  inquiry,  what 
it  is  that  makes  the  right  right.  At  this  very 
beginning  there  opens  a  gulf  between  the  two 
that  seems  impassable.  The  old  morality  feels 
that  to  give  any  reason  for  right-doing,  beyond 
the  fact  that  it  is  right,  would  be  to  degrade 
righteousness.  If  right-doing  had  any  other 
ground  of  authority  than  the  moral  law,  this 
ground  must  be  found  in  something  higher  than 
the  moral  law  ;  but  the  recognition  of  anything 
more  authoritative  than  the  moral  law,  it  feels 
would  be  treason  to  morality.  On  the  other 


268  DUTY. 

hand,  the  new  morality  judges  that  if  the  right 
can  give  no  reason  for  itself,  it  is  unreasonable. 
It  is  ready  to  obey  its  law  just  as  soon  as  the 
claim  can  be  justified,  and  not  before. 

The  breach  between  the  two  is  widened  when 
the  new  morality  begins  to  answer  its  own  ques- 
tion, and  to  show  why  the  right,  or  what  it  calls 
such,  should  be  obeyed.  The  right  is  right,  it 
affirms,  because  it  is  useful.  Utilitarianism, 
under  one  form  or  another,  is  the  one  principle 
common  to  all  theories  which  represent  the  new 
morality  ;  and  utilitarianism  is  what  the  old  mo- 
rality holds  most  in  abhorrence.  The  antithesis 
of  which  it  is  most  fond  is  that  between  the  right 
and  the  expedient ;  and  utilitarianism  takes  the 
expedient, —  the  expedient  in  the  largest  possi- 
ble sense  of  the  term,  it  is  true,  —  and  places 
it  on  the  throne  of  the  right. 

I  have  said  that  utilitarianism  under  one  form 
or  another  is  a  principle  common  to  all  theories 
in  which  the  new  morality  has  taken  form.  I 
suppose  that  utilitarianism,  pure  and  simple,  may 
be  considered  as  practically  among  the  things  of 
the  past.  This  theory,  it  is  easy  to  see,  divided 
itself  into  two  possible  forms.  According  to 
the  one,  right  action  was  based  upon  the  advan- 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  269 

tage  resulting  directly  or  indirectly  to  the  actor; 
according  to  the  other,  upon  the  advantage  re- 
sulting to  the  community.  It  is  easy  to  see  that, 
so  far  as  consequences  to  one's  self  are  con- 
cerned, the  consideration  of  these  gives  to  ac- 
tions no  moral  character  whatever  ;  and  that  if 
personal  advantage  be  the  end  in  view,  there  is 
no  guarantee  that  the  individual  should  not  take 
the  matter  into  his  own  hands,  and  seek  to  gain 
the  ends  that  seem  to  him  the  best  by  the  ways 
that  seem  to  him  the  surest  and  the  most  direct. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  advantage  to  the  commu- 
nity be  the  end  sought,  the  matter  is  left  where 
the  theory  found  it  ;  for  the  question  still  presses, 
Why  should  the  individual,  at  the  cost  of  his 
own  personal  advantage,  seek  the  public  good  ? 
Further,  this  theory,  in  common  with  all  theories 
that  would  base  moral  action  upon  some  open, 
easily  comprehended  principle,  according  to 
which  the  individual  should  consciously  guide 
his  life,  loses  sight  of  the  most  important  and 
efficient  element  of  the  moral  law  ;  I  refer  to  the 
element  of  mystery.  The  moral  law  has  owed 
its  power,  in  a  great  measure,  to  the  fact  that  it 
holds  its  seat  in  the  secret  recesses  of  the  na- 
ture, or  upon  some  inaccessible  height  above 


2/O  DUTY. 

nature,  from  whence  its  demands  issue  with  an 
authority  not  to  be  resisted  or  gainsaid.  We  may 
illustrate  this  aspect  of  the  moral  law  by  the 
discipline  of  a  ship.  Measured  by  the  results, 
every  act  of  every  sailor,  so  far  as  the  manage- 
ment of  the  ship  is  concerned,  has  for  its  end 
the  general  good.  The  sailors  expose  them- 
selves to  the  fierceness  of  cold  and  tempest ; 
they  peril  and  often  sacrifice  their  lives  for  the 
common  cause.  A  stranger  regarding  their 
movements  from  the  outside  would  find  the  most 
perfect  exemplification  of  the  utilitarian  theory. 
But  utility,  though  the  measure  and  standard,  is 
not  the  direct  cause  of  their  activity.  If  it  were, 
a  sailor  might  sometimes  hesitate  long  before 
trusting  himself  on  the  perilous  yard  in  the 
night  and  the  tempest ;  or,  even  if  all  were  well- 
disposed,  the  ship  might  go  to  the  bottom  while 
the  men  were  discussing  different  possible  meth- 
ods of  management.  The  source  of  authority  is 
the  captain's  will.  In  the  ship,  his  will  has  a 
mysterious  and  unquestioned  supremacy.  There 
is  to  be  no  hesitation  and  no  discussion.  The 
sailor  does  what  he  does,  often  having  no  guess 
as  to  the  reason  why.  Utility,  according  to 
Kant's  dictum  in  the  larger  field  of  morals,  is 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  2Jl 

the  measure  but  not  the  cause  of  the  activity. 
This  illustrates  the  element  which  lends  its  pe- 
culiar authority  to  the  moral  law.  If  the  new 
morality  would  in  any  sense  replace  the  old,  it 
must  assert,  as  its  vital  element,  some  such  prin- 
ciple as  this.  Morality  must  be  shown  to  have  at 
least  the  authority  of  an  instinct. 

The  new  ethics  cannot  give  up  the  principle 
of  utilitarianism,  which  is  its  life ;  but  the  diffi- 
culties with  the  doctrine  as  at  first  announced 
were  too  real  to  remain  unnoticed.  The  doctrine 
was  retained,  and  the  difficulties  which  I  have 
described  were  removed  by  one  of  the  most 
ingenious  and  profound  suggestions  that  have 
marked  the  history  of  thought.  We  have  consid- 
ered the  principle  of  utility  merely  in  relation  to 
the  life  of  the  individual.  We  have  supposed 
this  life  to  begin  without  predisposition,  and  to 
be  guided  by  conscious  choice.  Such  was  the 
view  of  the  earlier  teachers  of  utilitarianism. 
But  let  us  take  into  account  the  great  principle 
of  heredity  ;  let  the  sense  of  utility,  of  the  needs 
of  society,  of  the  demands  which  the  whole 
makes  upon  each  part,  have  gathered  strength 
through  innumerable  generations  ;  let  all  irregu- 
larities of  time  and  place  be  eliminated  from  the 


2/2  DUTY. 

result,  because  such  irregularities  will  go  for 
nothing  in  the  great  mass  ;  and  let  the  combined, 
intensified,  and  purified  result  enter  into  the  con- 
stitution of  the  individual ;  let  it  be  born  with 
him,  and  twined  in  with  every  fibre  of  the  brain: 
and  we  have  a  result  far  more  satisfactory  than 
any  which  we  have  before  reached.  This  is  the 
result  which  is  taken  for  granted  by  the  new 
ethics.  In  the  language  of  Spencer,  "The  ex- 
periences of  utility,  organized  and  consolidated 
through  all  past  generations  of  the  human  race, 
have  been  producing  corresponding  modifica- 
tions, which  by  continued  transmission  and  ac- 
cumulation have  become  in  us  certain  faculties 
of  moral  intuition." 

We  have  thus  the  elements  of  a  mysterious 
authority,  whose  decisions  are  not  to  be  ques- 
tioned or  explained,  which  acts  from  the  depths 
of  the  nature,  and  which  thus  represents  the 
"  categorical  imperative  "  which  we  seek. 

This  result  would  seem  at  first  sight  to  bring 
the  new  morality  into  greater  harmony  with  the 
old.  In  reality  it  widens  the  breach  between  the 
two.  We  have  seen  the  old  ethics  to  be  abso- 
lute, and  the  new  relative,  in  their  conceptions  of 
the  right.  The  old  morality  is  further  absolute 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  273 

in  its  conception  of  the  source  of  moral  authority 
in  the  soul.  It  insists  that  the  moral  instinct 
was  one  of  the  original  endowments  of  man ;  or 
else,  that  the  moral  law  is  the  direct  voice  of 
God  making  itself  heard  by  the  soul,  whether  it 
be  willing  or  unwilling  to  listen.  Upon  this  di- 
rectness or  spontaneity  it  bases  much  of  its  rever- 
ence for  morality.  According  to  the  new  ethics, 
the  moral  law  is  the  outgrowth  of  experience. 
It  is  not  that  the  soul  has  impressed  itself  upon 
the  world  ;  the  world  has  moulded  the  soul. 
The  moral  law  comes  not  from  within,  outward  ; 
it  begins  on  the  outside.  It  has  its  source  in 
the  circumstances  of  human  life,  not  in  that  life 
itself. 

One  or  two  further  considerations  will  bring 
the  two  systems  into  a  yet  sharper  antithesis. 
The  new  morality  insists  that  usefulness  is  the 
measure  of  right.  Another  question  forces  it- 
self upon  us,  if  the  answer  just  given  is  to  have 
any  meaning.  "The  right  is  the  useful:"  the 
phrase  says  nothing  till  we  know  what  is  meant 
by  usefulness.  What  is  the  great  end  its  minis- 
try for  which  gives  any  act  moral  preeminence  ? 
This  question  has  been  too  much  overlooked  by 
utilitarian  moralists,  and  the  answer  when  given 


2/4  DUTY. 

has  been  sometimes  as  ambiguous  as  the  phrase 
it  would  explain.  Useful  for  happiness  has,  per- 
haps, been  the  most  common  explanation ;  but 
this  leaves  the  whole  matter  still  open.  All  men 
seek  happiness.  Who  can  say  that  the  happiness 
of  the  saint  is  greater  than  that  of  the  sensualist  ? 
By  what  test  at  the  command  of  the  utilitarian 
can  we  decide  that  the  one  form  of  happiness 
is  of  a  higher  grade,  or  a  finer  texture,  than  the 
other  ?  The  old  morality  has  no  difficulty  in  fur- 
nishing such  a  test ;  the  new  has  found  in  this 
discrimination  its  hardest  task. 

And  yet  there  is  but  one  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, "  Useful  for  what  ?  "  which  the  new  moral- 
ity, if  it  be  wholly  consistent  with  itself,  can 
give.  This  answer  must  be  found  in  the  philos- 
ophy which  underlies  the  thought  most  pecul- 
iar to  the  age  ;  I  mean  the  philosophy  which  is 
identified  with  the  theory  of  development  by 
natural  selection.  To  the  question  under  consid- 
eration, this  philosophy  can  give  but  one  answer, 
namely,  Useful  for  existence.  Its  fundamental 
principle  is,  "The  Struggle  for  Existence."  Its 
favorite  phrase  is,  "The  Survival  of  the  Fittest." 
In  this  phrase  the  word  "fittest"  means  simply 
that  which  is  the  best  fitted  to  its  surroundings, 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  2?$ 

that  to  which  existence  is  therefore  the  easiest. 
Everything  is  tested  by  its  adaptation  to  this 
end.  The  existence  aimed  at  is  mere  existence. 
It  does  not  mean  primarily  even  happiness.  Hap- 
piness of  a  certain  kind  is  favorable  to  existence. 
There  is  no  such  drain  upon  the  vital  force  as 
misery.  Unhappiness  gives  a  friction  to  life 
which  makes  living  difficult.  For  this  reason 
happiness  has  worth  for  the  philosophy  we  are 
considering,  not  as  an  end  in  itself,  but  as  a 
means  to  the  end  ;  and  this  end  is  existence. 
Its  motto  would  be,  not  "  The  greatest  good  of 
the  greatest  number,"  whatever  meaning  may  be 
implied  by  the  word  "  good ;  "  but,  "  The  most 
prolonged  existence  for  the  greatest  number." 
Still  less,  if  possible,  would  the  term  "  existence  " 
include  any  moral  quality.  Morality,  by  its  very 
definition,  being  synonymous  with  utility,  and 
utility  having  reference  to  the  mere  fact  of  exist- 
ence, existence  can  derive  no  nobility  from  this. 
A  full  existence  has  no  advantage  over  an  empty 
one,  except  that  the  full,  having  more  points  of 
contact  with  the  world  than  the  empty,  has  an 
advantage  in  the  great  struggle  for  life. 

We  have  thus  a  fresh,  and  if  possible  a  more 
striking,  antithesis  between  the  old  and  the  new 


2/6  DUTY. 

morality.  To  the  old,  goodness  was  the  great 
end  of  life.  It  is  for  this  that  men  live.  Exist- 
ence is  for  the  sake  of  right-doing.  To  the  new 
morality,  right-doing  is  for  the  sake  of  existence. 
To  the  old,  there  is  an  impassable  gulf  between 
the  moral  demand  and  its  fulfilment.  Man  ex- 
ists in  order  to  fulfil  the  moral  law ;  and  because 
this  law  is  infinite  in  its  requirements,  man  shall 
exist  forever.  To  the  new,  man  exists  because  he 
and  his  ancestors  have  on  the  whole  done  that 
which  is  right.  His  existence  upon  the  earth  is 
the  reward  of  virtue. 

We  have  thus  compared  the  new  ethics  and 
the  old,  so  far  as  their  theoretical  bases  are  con- 
cerned ;  and  we  have  found  them  at  every  point 
sharply  opposed  to  one  another.  We  have  now 
to  consider  the  two  in  their  practical  relations. 
If  they  are  as  diverse  in  their  requirements  as 
they  are  in  their  theories,  there  can  be  only  war 
between  them  as  long  as  they  shall  both  endure. 
If,  however,  we  should  find  that,  while  differing 
so  widely  on  all  points  of  theory,  they  yet  unite, 
to  any  considerable  extent,  in  urging  the  same 
duties,  then  they  may  be  co-workers  to  the  same 
end.  So  far  as  the  new  morality  is  concerned, 
there  is  a  still  deeper  question  to  be  answered. 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  277 

Can  it  furnish  a  basis  for  any  system  of  practical 
duties  whatever ;  or  are  its  demands  as  variable 
as  the  circumstances  which  make  up  the  outward 
life  of  man  ?  As  taught  by  Mr.  Darwin,  it  would 
seem  to  be  open  at  least  to  doubt  in  this  regard  ; 
and  it  was  her  perception  of  this  fundamental 
deficiency  that  drew  from  Miss  Cobbe  her  in- 
dignant protest  against  the  "  Ethics  of  Darwin- 
ism." In  this  matter,  however,  we  need  not  ac- 
cept as  final  the  words  of  any  teacher.  Even  the 
founder  of  a  theory  cannot  be  trusted  to  inter- 
pret with  infallible  correctness  all  its  manifold 
relations.  Neither  accepting  nor  condemning 
the  results  of  any  exponent  of  Darwinism,  let  us 
look  directly  at  the  theory  itself.  We  have  then 
to  ask  what  form  of  human  character  does  the 
principle  of  natural  selection  tend  to  produce? 
The  general  answer  is,  of  course,  that  natural 
selection  tends  to  produce  the  character  most  in 
harmony  with  its  environment.  But  what,  it 
must  be  asked  again,  is  meant  by  the  environ- 
ment ?  This  has  two  forms.  The  first  is  the 
natural  and  physical  facts  of  the  world ;  the 
other  is  the  structure  of  the  society  into  which 
any  individual  is  born.  So  far  as  moral  char- 
acter is  concerned,  this  last  is  the  more  impor- 


27  8  DUTY. 

tant.  In  this  aspect,  the  law  of  th'e  survival  of 
the  fittest  has  no  reference  to  any  fixed  and  arbi- 
trary standard.  It  means  simply  that  he  who  is 
best  fitted  to  succeed  in  any  community  will 
have  the  advantage,  and  will  tend  to  impress  his 
moral  nature  upon  his  descendants.  There  are 
in  the  physical  world  certain  fundamental  char- 
acteristics which  are  necessary  to  life  every- 
where, and  certain  malformations  that  would  be 
fatal  anywhere.  The  blood  must  be  oxygenated, 
the  food  must  be  received  and  assimilated.  In 
other  respects  the  form  varies  infinitely.  There 
may  be  innumerable  degrees  of  strength,  of  size, 
and  of  conformation  and  relation  of  organs.  If 
the  creature  is  to  live  in  the  water,  or  on  the 
land,  or  in  the  air ;  if  its  food  is  to  be  of  one 
kind  or  another  ;  its  whole  structure  will  adapt 
itself  to  these  circumstances.  This  adaptation 
will  descend  to  the  most  minute  elements  of  the 
environment.  It  will  answer  to  them  as  the  clay 
answers  to  its  mould.  The  same  law  of  natural 
selection  produced  the  whale,  the  minnow,  and 
the  devil-fish  ;  the  serpent,  the  sloth,  and  the 
hare ;  the  lion  and  the  lamb ;  the  hawk  and  the 
dove.  If  the  social  environment  of  man  varies 
less  than  the  physical  environment  of  the  animal, 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  2/9 

it  varies  no  less  really.  There  are,  of  course, 
certain  kinds  and  degrees  of  immorality  that  are 
everywhere  fatal  to  success.  A  certain  degree 
of  honor,  the  proverb  tells  us,  is  necessary  if  one 
would  preserve  his  social  standing  in  a  company 
of  thieves.  But  beyond  the  avoidance  of  the 
most  gross  and  open  violations  of  the  social  com- 
pact, there  is  little  that  is  everywhere  and  always 
excluded  by  the  demands  of  the  social  environ- 
ment. The  man  who  was  fitted  to  succeed  in  the 
early  days  of  the  Roman  republic  would  have 
failed  in  the  latter  days  of  the  empire ;  and  one 
whom  the  social  elements  of  the  empire  pushed 
into  prominence  would  have  fared  hardly  in  the 
republic.  Thus  the  social  environment  is  ever 
changing,  and  the  demands  made  upon  the  moral 
nature  by  success  vary  indefinitely.  Indeed,  the 
societies  in  which  the  highest  and  finest  moral 
attributes  are  a  passport  to  success  are  very  rare. 
The  "fittest"  in  the  moral  sense  and  the  "fit- 
test" in  the  sense  of  Darwinism  are  not  often 
the  same.  Certainly,  neither  in  Athens  nor  at 
Jerusalem  was  moral  perfection  one  with  fitness 
to  survive ;  and  Mr.  Gregg  has  fairly  proved  to 
us  that  in  European  society  the  law  of  the  sur- 
vival of  the  fittest  has,  in  many  ways,  opposed 


280  DUTY. 

the  production  and  survival  of  the  best.  If  the 
new  morality  have  no  better  basis  than  this  law, 
it  rests  upon  very  sandy  foundations  ;  or,  if  we 
regard  the  present  relation  of  the  social  factors 
as  one  of  stable  equilibrium,  our  moral  code  must 
be,  to  a  large  extent,  reconstructed ;  and  in  this 
reconstruction  the  demands  of  what  has  been 
generally  recognized  as  the  moral  nature  must 
be  largely  ignored. 

Further,  it  is  often  insisted  that  natural  selec- 
tion means  simply  the  right  of  the  strongest ; 
that  an  ethical  theory  based  upon  this  would 
simply  affirm  the  right  of  the  strongest  in  our 
human  fellowships.  It  is  probably  from  some 
such  view  of  the  ethics  of  Darwinism  that  a  bril- 
liant though  anonymous  writer  refers  thus  to  an 
author  who  had  affirmed  his  belief  in  Darwin- 
ism. "We  do  not  believe,"  he  says,  "that  this 
author  is  at  all  prepared  to  accept  the  changes 
which  this  new  view  of  the  laws  of  growth  would 
work  in  practical  ethics,  in  our  treatment  of 
paupers  and  criminals,  for  example,  and  our 
views  of  marriage  and  culture.  \Ve  doubt  if  he 
is  ready  to  say  that  it  is  vastly  more  important 
to  prevent  a  criminal  from  having  descendants 
than  it  is  to  reform  him  ;  and  we  are  confident 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  28 1 

that  he  does  not  regard  it  as  being  as  much 
the  duty  of  healthy  men  to  marry  young  as  to 
acquire  culture  and  do  great  deeds ;  more  wrong 
to  marry  a  sickly  person  for  love  than  a  strong 
one  for  money.  And  these  new  ethics  will  find 
as  little  to  support  them  in  the  ascetic  self-sub- 
jugation of  the  older  time  as  in  the  sentimental 
fear  of  taking  life  of  the  new." 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  writer  from  whom 
I  have  just  quoted  is  or  is  not  in  sympathy  with 
Darwinism,  and  with  the  system  of  ethics  that 
he  believes  to  grow  out  of  it ;  whether  the  pas- 
sage was  written  in  good  faith  or  as  satire.  In 
this  view,  "  the  struggle  for  existence "  is  one 
in  which  physical  strength  and  worldly  wisdom 
are  the  great  weapons  of  success.  Even  from 
this  point  of  view  it  would  be  difficult  to  make 
the  statement  quite  consistent  with  itself,  —  to 
explain,  for  instance,  why  a  criminal  should  be 
killed  in  order  that  he  might  have  no  descend- 
ants ;  and  the  person  who  sees  in  marriage  only 
a  form  of  money-making  should  be  encouraged 
to  have  them  ;  why  it  is  so  much  worse  to  vio- 
late the  laws  of  property  than  to  degrade  the 
highest  moral  instincts ;  why  worse  to  obtain 
money  on  a  fraudulent  promise  of  repayment  of 


282  DUTY. 

money,  than  to  obtain,  we  will  say,  money  under 
a  fraudulent  promise  of  repayment  in  love. 

To  see  the  full  bearing  of  the  passage,  we 
need  to  look  behind  one  or  two  phrases.  To 
marry  for  money  is  not  necessarily  to  marry  ac- 
cording to  the  laws  of  health  ;  to  marry  for  love 
is  not  necessarily  to  marry  unhealthily.  In  a 
community  where  self-interest  should  control  all 
marriages,  not  all  the  descendants  would  be 
healthy ;  but  all  would,  in  time,  be  selfish.  In 
a  community  where  all  marriages  should  be  for 
love,  all  the  descendants  would  not  be  unhealthy, 
but  there  would  be  a  tendency  to  unselfishness 
in  all. 

It  is  not  my  business,  however,  to  explain,  to 
justify,  or  to  condemn,  the  passage  I  have  quoted. 
I  have  referred  to  it  simply  to  illustrate  what 
I  conceive  to  be  a  very  common  view  of  the 
kind  of  morality  which  would  result  if  Darwin- 
ism should  become  the  established  philosophy  of 
the  time.  Perhaps  also  it  illustrates  the  change 
and  confusion  in  regard  to  the  standard  of  moral- 
ity which  would  actually  be  produced  by  recog- 
nition, in  its  fullest  extent,  of  the  law  of  natural 
selection  as  we  have  thus  far  regarded  it. 

But  there  is  another  aspect  of    this  law.     It 


THE  NEW  ETHICS,  283 

has  a  broader  field  of  application  than  any  which 
we  have  thus  far  considered,  and  in  this  broader 
field  its  demands  are  absolute  and  inflexible. 

I  may  introduce  a  consideration  of  this  new 
aspect  of  the  case  by  reference  to  a  difficulty 
which  Mr.  Darwin  tells  us  he  met  while  working 
out  his  system.  The  difficulty  was  suggested  by 
the  presence  of  the  sterile  workers  among  the 
bees.  This  seemed  at  first  sight,  he  tells  us, 
fatal  to  his  whole  theory.  It  is  obvious  that 
sterility  is  nothing  that  can  be  hereditary. 
Moreover,  even  the  tendency  to  sterility  is  di-. 
rectly  opposed  to  the  success  of  any  class  of 
beings  in  the  struggle  for  existence.  Soon,  how- 
ever, the  thought  of  the  great  naturalist  took  a 
wider  range.  Any  class  of  individuals,  consid- 
ered merely  as  individuals,  with  whom  such  a 
tendency  should  exist,  would  tend  to  extinction  : 
but  a  community  is  not  merely  a  collection  of  in- 
dividuals ;  it  is  itself  an  individual.  The  princi- 
ple of  natural  selection  applies  as  really  to  com- 
munities as  to  the  individuals  that  compose 
them.  These  also  are  subjected  to  the  struggle 
for  existence,  and  here  also  it  is  the  fittest  who 
survive.  The  community  of  bees  that  should 
develop  a  class  of  sterile  workers  would  have 


284  DUTY. 

thereby  an  immense  advantage  over  those  that 
did  not,  and  would  endure  while  they  would  per- 
ish. Schopenhauer  had  long  before  expressed 
the  thought  that  the  community  of  bees,  for 
example,  develops  classes  of  members  adapted 
to  special  functions,  just  as  a  body  develops 
organs.  And  now  Darwin  shows  that  these 
organizations  are  as  plastic  under  the  great 
force  which  controls  the  development  of  life  as 
the  single  organisms  themselves.  Thus  the  diffi- 
culty that  threatened  the  destruction  of  the  Dar- 
winian theory  was  a  means  of  opening  to  it  a 
wide  sweep  of  applications,  of  which  its  founder 
at  first  had  not  dreamed. 

The  same  principle  comes  to  our  aid  in  seek- 
ing in  the  theory  of  Darwinism  a  basis  for  moral- 
ity. We  have  found  that  the  principle  of  natu- 
ral selection  would  vary  in  its  action  according 
to  the  nature  of  the  social  environment.  One 
society  would  favor  the  development  of  honesty 
and  honor ;  another  that  of  cunning  and  hy- 
pocrisy. In  one,  gluttony  and  sensuality  and 
kindred  vices  would  sink  a  man  to  the  lowest 
stratum  of  society ;  in  another  they  would  buoy 
him  up  so  that  he  should  float  upon  the  highest. 
But  here  at  last  we  have  a  principle  to  which 


THE  NEW  E-THICS.  285 

these  social  conditions  are  themselves  amena- 
ble. One  society  will  develop  one  type  of  char- 
acter ;  another,  another ;  but  according  to  the 
type  of  character  which  it  favors  will  it  stand 
or  fall.  Here  we  find  a  recognition  by  the  facts 
of  history  of  the  fundamental  distinctions  of 
right  and  wrong.  What  we  call  righteousness  is 
the  only  enduring  basis  upon  which  society  can 
rest.  We  are  told  much  of  the  "  Power  not  our- 
selves that  makes  for  righteousness."  We  have, 
perhaps,  all  wished  that  the  author  of  the  phrase 
would  explain  to  us  more  clearly  the  method  of 
the  working  of  this  power.  Here  at  last  it  man- 
ifests itself.  It  is  present  as  a  power  of  judg- 
ment, if  not  of  creation.  The  nations  that  work 
iniquity,  that  despise  justice,  that  lose  themselves 
in  the  revels  of  the  senses,  are  at  last  dashed 
to  pieces  like  a  potter's  vessel  ;  and  a  purer, 
stronger,  and  less  corrupted  race  succeeds. 

We  see,  thus,  how  the  principle  of  natural  se- 
lection may,  and  often  does,  fall  into  collision 
with  itself.  Under  one  form  it  develops  a  type 
of  character  which  under  another  it  destroys. 
In  the  Roman  empire  it  was  this  that  led  the 
Caracallas  and  the  Caligulas  to  the  supreme 
position  ;  and  it  was  this  that  destroyed  the  Ro- 


286  DUTY. 

man  empire,  because  its  social  conditions  were 
such  as  to  foster  the  growth  of  characters  like 
those  to  whom  I  have  referred.  Such  is  the 
irony  of  this  ruler  of  the  world. . 

The  general  conditions  of  human  society  are 
the  same  everywhere.  In  a  valuable  article 
upon  the  "Ethics  of  Darwinism,"1  Mr.  Francis 
E.  Abbot  has  compared  these  conditions  to  the 
fundamental  relations  which  make  mathematics 
an  a  priori  science.  These  are  the  principles 
in  accordance  with  which  the  terrible  power 
of  natural  selection  works  in  the  large  relations 
which  we  are  here  considering. 

Perhaps,  indeed,  it  is  to  this  larger  aspect  of 
the  case  that  the  passage  which  I  quoted  a  short 
time  ago  refers.  I  mean  the  passage  in  which 
physical  strength  was  made  the  one  supreme 
thing,  in  which  a  calculating  meanness  that  fa- 
vored this  was  exalted  so  high  above  a  generous 
love  that  ignored  it,  in  which  the  natural  sympa- 
thies of  the  heart  were  to  be  suppressed  in  order 
that  vice  and  poverty  might  be  suppressed  in 
their  turn.  Here  at  last  may  be  the  field  where 
the  survival  of  the  fittest  means  simply  the  sur- 
vival of  the  strongest ;  where  the  struggle  for 

1  Index,  March  12,  1874. 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  28? 

existence  leaves  no  place  for  delicacy,  or  refine- 
ment, or  idealism,  or  chivalric  extravagance ; 
where  all  must  be  calculating  and  hard,  and  a 
sensible  selfishness  is  more  to  the  purpose  than 
an  extravagant  love.  But  even  in  this  battle  of 
the  Titans,  this  struggle  for  existence,  in  which 
it  is  nation  against  nation  and  race  against  race, 
such  teaching  misinterprets  the  laws  that  pre- 
side over  the  great  strife. 

These  laws  are  gentle  as  they  are  terrible. 
See  their  working  in  the  life-and-death  conflict 
which  is  waged  in  the  whole  realm  of  the  lower 
nature,  in  which  bird  and  beast  secure  their 
place  in  this  over-crowded  world,  where  each  sur- 
vives only  at  the  cost  of  multitudes  that  perish. 
Here,  if  anywhere,  would  be  manifested  the 
sternness  of  these  laws,  their  contempt  for  any- 
thing but  brute  force.  Shall  we  utter  here 
teaching  such  as  that  to  which  I  have  referred  ? 
Shall  we  say,  Strength  is  everything ;  in  this 
fierce  battle  he  who  can  best  seize  his  prey  and 
fight  down  his  rivals  in  the  chase  will  be  the  vic- 
tor ?  Shall  we  bid  the  nightingale  seek  weapons 
like  those  of  the  hawk,  and  the  humming-bird 
change  its  iridescent  garment  for  an  armor  of 
hard  shell  that  shall  protect  its  tiny  life  ?  Little 


288  DUTY. 

shall  we  understand  the  powers  that  determine 
the  result  of  the  strife,  and  award  his  triumph 
to  the  victor.  To  them  the  delicate,  the  grace- 
ful, the  tender,  the  beautiful,  are  as  dear  as  the 
fierce  and  the  strong.  It  was  the  great  law  of 
natural  selection  itself  that  taught  the  nightingale 
to  sing,  and  that  painted  the  humming-bird  with 
his  changeful  hues.  It  is  this  that  whispers  to 
the  timid  hare  to  flee,  and  this  that  binds  the  gen- 
tle sheep  together  in  their  harmless  federation. 

Those  who  maintain  that,  according  to  the  law 
of  natural  selection,  only  the  strong  survive, 
seem  to  forget  for  the  moment  how  the  helpless 
young  of  species  the  most  unlike,  the  fiercest  as 
well  as  the  gentlest,  are  cared  for  by  self-forgetful 
and  often  self-sacrificing  love. 

What  is  true  in  the  lower  world  of  animal 
life  is  no  less  true  in  the  higher  world  of  man. 
Here  the  struggle  is  no  less  terrible.  Here, 
also,  in  the  long  run,  it  is  the  fittest  that  sur- 
vives. Long  before  Darwinism  was  dreamed  of, 
Emerson  sang  in  his  prophetic  numbers,  — 

"  For  gods  delight  in  gods, 
And  thrust  the  weak  aside." 

But  there  is  another  kind  of  might  than  hard, 
gross,  bodily  force,  and  in  the  struggle  for  exist- 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  289 

ence  the  battle  is  not  always  to  the  physically  •. 
strong.  Two  elements  have  contributed  more 
than  anything  else  to  the  success  of  man  in  the 
conflict  with  the  lower  animals,  and  of  the  civ- 
ilized man  in  conflict  with  the  barbarian.  One 
of  these  is  knowledge,  or  the  power  of  thought ; 
the  other  is  the  force  of  the  social  instincts. 

V 

Ideas  on  the  one  hand,  a  self-forgetful  devotion 
on  the  other,  —  these  are  what  have  won  for  the 
higher  races  the  victory.  Whatever  checks  the 
tendency  either  to  mental  development  on  the 
one  side,  or  spiritual  development  on  the  other,  > 
strikes  the  heaviest  possible  blow  at  the  stability 
of  the  social  organism. 

Physical  strength,  brute  force,  whether  of  body  * 
or  will,  is  nothing  to  be  spoken  lightly  of.     It  is 
something  to  be  sought  and  cherished  by  wise 
prevision.     It  is  only  when  the   lower  force  is 
urged  in  despite  of  the  higher  spiritual   forces  ''• 
that  we  protest.     Sleek  and    prosperous  selfish- 
ness gives  a  certain  element  of  strength  to  a  so- 
ciety.    For  a  time  it  may  furnish  to  it  a  stable  . 
foundation.     But  it  furnishes  a  power  of  disin- 
tegration as  well.     In  times  of  peril,  selfishness 
will  give  its  money,  it  will  not  give  its  life,  for 
the  common  cause.     It  is  not  the  children  of  a 


DUTY. 

line  of  ancestors  who  have  been  bound  together 
in  each  generation  by  the  golden  bands  of  self- 
interest  that,  in  a  moment  of  peril,  a  nation  can 
summon  to  its  defence.  It  is  not  those  who  have 
learned  to  repress  the  natural  instincts  of  hu- 
manity, who  see  no  longer  the  sacredness  of 
human  life,  who  are  willing  to  extirpate  suffering 
by  the  extirpation  of  the  sufferers,  —  it  is  not 
these  that  can  catch  the  grand  enthusiasm  which 
makes  men  willing  to  die  before  they  know 
whether  the  good  they  seek  can  actually  be  pur- 
chased even  at  that  costly  price.  I  am  not  com- 
paring these  different  types  of  character  by  any 
sentimental  standard.  I  am  bringing  them  be- 
fore the  bar  of  that  stern  power  which  is  now 
recognized  as  the  judge  of  all  the  earth  ;  and  it 
is  in  the  light  of  its  judgments  that  I  affirm  that 
he  who  urges  on  the  authority  of  Darwinism  the 
hard  morality  that  has  been  described,  has  failed 
to  comprehend  the  working  of  those  laws  of 
which  he  speaks. 

There  is  no  tenderness  of  human  love,  there  is 
no  generosity  of  human  charity,  there  is  no  self- 
forgetfulness  of  a  sublime  idealism,  that  does  not 
have  its  place  and  its  work,  even  under  the  hard 
and  stern  conditions  of  the  struggle  for  existence. 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  291 

A  community  may  be  constructed  on  princi- 
ples that  will  crush  out  these  self-forgetting  lives. 
The  laws  of  natural  selection  applied  in  the  nar- 
row circuit  of  this  community  may  justify  and 
enforce  their  extinction.  But  there  is  a  higher 
court  which  sits  also  for  the  enforcing  of  these 
laws.  To  this  higher  court  the  appeal  is  always 
made.  At  this  tribunal  the  lower  decision  is 
reversed ;  and  the  community  which  has  dis- 
owned all  that  is  tender,  and  chivalric,  and  self- 
forgetful  will  in  its  turn  suffer  terrible  condemna- 
tion. 

Our  twofold  question  is  thus  answered.  The 
law  of  natural  selection  furnishes  a  basis  for  an 
absolute  morality,  above  all  fluctuations  result- 
ing from  conditions  peculiar  to  special  times  and 
places ;  and  this  morality  is,  on  the  whole,  one 
with  that  which  the  best  thought  of  the  world 
has  recognized  as  such.  I  do  not  raise  the  ques- 
tion whether  the  existence  of  the  moral  sense 
may  or  may  not  be  explained  by  this  principle. 
We  have  found  simply  that  there  is  no  need  for 
fear  lest  the  new  science  shall  undermine  virtue. 
We  have  found  a  force  working  steadily  in  the 
direction  of  a  high  morality,  and  have  reached  a 
point  where  the  new  ethics  and  the  old  are  in 
accord. 


2Q2  DUTY. 

The  two  systems,  then,  while  theoretically  at 
absolute  variance,  are  practically  working  to- 
gether towards  the  same  end.  This  fact  may 
suggest  the  question  whether  the  theoretical  an- 
tagonism between  the  two  implies  a  real  hostil- 
ity ;  whether  the  antithesis  may  not  rather  be 
called  polar;  whether  they  do  not  represent 
opposite  sides  of  the  same  thing,  or  are  not  the 
outgrowths  of  opposite  but  inseparable  tenden- 
cies of  thought  and  life.  An  examination  will 
show  that  this  is  the  case.  There  are  recognized 
in  the  thought  of  most,  and  in  the  practical  life 
of  all,  two  principles,  in  appearance  utterly  an- 
tagonistic to  one  another.  These  are  tUe  princi- 
ples of  freedom  and  necessity.  Logically  de- 
structive of  one  another,  practically  they  are 
recognized  as  common  factors  of  life. 

Theodore  Parker  once  gave,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  about  three  parts  out  of  a  hundred  of  the 
result  of  any  life  to  freedom,  the  rest  to  necessity. 
Really,  the  relation  is  a  variable  one ;  in  some 
lives,  even  the  "three  parts"  would  be  hard  to 
find.  In  others,  freedom  is  a  constantly  increas- 
ing factor.  These  principles  have  embodied 
themselves  in  the  systems  of  morality  we  have 
been  considering.  The  old  morality  represents 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  293 

the  idea  of  freedom  ;  the  new,  that  of  necessity. 
According  to  the  old,  every  man  is  the  absolute 
master  of  himself;  according  to  the  new,  every 
man  is  the  creature  of  circumstances.  I  have 
said  that  in  common  life  both  these  principles 
are  practically  recognized.  The  parent  believes 
that  the  character  of  his  child  is  ultimately  to 
rest  upon  the  choice  of  the  child  himself ;  yet  he 
seeks  by  education  and  surroundings  to  force  the 
child  into  the  ways  of  virtue,  and  to  ward  off  evil 
influences,  as  if  the  child  were  wholly  at  their 
mercy.  I  am  not  going  to  discuss  the  old  ques- 
tion, and  to  seek  a  solution  of  the  difficulties  that 
so  many  have  found  insoluble.  It  is  enough  for 
us  here  to  have  found  the  secret  of  the  diver- 
gence between  the  two  systems  of  ethics,  and  to 
recognize  the  fact  that,  till  the  old  strife  between 
freedom  and  necessity  is  at  an  end,  each  of  these 
systems  will  find  its  place  and  its  work. 

Another  consideration  may  help  us  to  under- 
stand how  two  systems,  practically  in  accord, 
may  stand  theoretically  in  such  sharp  antith- 
esis, even  while  it  contributes  nothing  toward 
the  solution  of  this  antithesis.  I  refer  to  the 
partialness  of  each  statement.  It  is  easy  to  see 
that  both  end  in  incompleteness.  The  one 


294  DUTY. 

affirms  an  absolute  right  which  can  neither  be 
explained  nor  justified  ;  the  other  makes  its  high- 
est term  existence,  without  object  or  fulfilment. 
But  the  law  of  right  implies  imperfection  in  its 
subject,  for  the  moral  law,  as  such,  exists  so  far 
as  love  is  absent.  As  the  Jewish  law  was  the 
schoolmaster  to  lead  men  to  Christ,  so  the  moral 
law  everywhere  prepares  the  way  for,  or  takes 
the  place  of,  a  wise  and  thoughtful  love.  As 
Jesus  said,  "  Love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law.'1 

On  the  other  hand,  the  law  of  natural  selection 
itself  may  show  us  how  the  individual  exists  in 
and  for  the  community.  This  is  only  a  state- 
ment from  the  outside  of  that  which,  when  con- 
sciously adopted  as  the  true  meaning  of  life,  is 
expressed  from  .the  inside  as  the  law  of  love. 
The  maker  of  the  musical  instrument  aims 
simply  to  produce  accuracy  and  purity  of  tone. 
Who  could  tell  in  advance  the  magnificence  of 
the  result  when  the  single  instrument  lends  it- 
self to  form  part  of  the  grand  harmony  of  the 
completed  composition  ?  The  law  of  natural 
selection  aims  at  existence  only  ;  but  when  the 
existence  of  the  individual  is  given  up  for  that 
of  the  whole,  there  come  a  beauty  and  glory  that 
transfigure  the  result. 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  295 

In  spite  of  the  fundamental  accord  between 
the  two  systems  in  practical  relations,  the  differ- 
ent principles  which  they  embody  will  introduce 
superficial  yet  very  marked  differences  into  the 
practical  working  of  the  two  types  of  morality. 

I.  The  old  morality  is  stern.     It  judges  piti- 
lessly,   throwing   the    burden    of    his    misdeeds 
wholly  upon  the  wrong-doer.     The   new  is  gra- 
cious and  sympathetic.      It  seeks    excuses   and 
palliations ;   so  far  as  it  blames  at  all,  and   its 
blame  is  simply  the  seeking  of  the  nearest  cause 
of  the  result,  it  lays  the  burden  of  the  guilt,  not 
on  the  wrong-doer  himself,  but  upon  the  society 
that  has  made  him  what  he  is, 

II.  The  old  morality  is  unpractical.     It  utters 
its  commands,  and  leaves  them  to  execute  them- 
selves.    The  new  is  practical.     It   seeks  so  to 
arrange  the  circumstances  of  each  life  that  its 
demands  shall  inevitably  be  fulfilled. 

III.  The  old  morality,  though  terribly  radical 
when  its  way  is  perfectly  clear  before  it,  is  yet 
often  blindly  conservative.     Having  confessedly 
no  outward  test  of  right  and  wrong^  it  sometimes 
confounds  traditions  and   prejudices  with   intui- 
tions.     It   adopts   some   institution   as   divinely 
given,  or  as  expressing  some  fundamental   ele- 


DUTY. 

ment  of  right,  and  launches  the  terrors  of  its 
wrath  against  all  who  would  disturb  it.  The 
new  has  an  external  test ;  namely,  utility.  This 
test  it  applies  fearlessly.  It  is  thus  absolutely 
radical.  For  it  the  prestige  of  years,  the  claims 
of  divine  appointment  or  of  inherent  sanctity, 
amount  to  nothing.  The  whole  world  is  open  to 
its  reforming  touch. 

In  this  comparison  the  old  morality  may  ap- 
pear at  some  disadvantage  ;  but  we  must  bear  in  ' 
mind  that  if  the  new  morality  could  entirely  sup- 
plant it,  there  would  remain  no  morality  worthy 
of  the  name.  It  is  the  free  act  of  the  soul  in 
choosing  the  right  that  gives  to  it  any  moral 
character  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word.  We 
may  make  this  choice  easy  and  natural,  or  we 
may  surround  it  with  difficulties  ;  but  in  any  case 
it  is  this  which  is,  morally  speaking,  the  vital 
point  of  every  act. 

IV.  The  old  morality  placed  itself  outside  of 
all  historical  relations.  The  moral  sense  being 
one  of  the  original  constituents  of  human  nature, 
it  existed  from  the  first  fully  formed.  The  only 
historical  change  which  it  can  undergo  is  that  of 
a  greater  or  less  debasement.  The  new  morality 
recognizes  the  principle  of  development  in  moral 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  297 

relations  as  well  as  in  all  others.  Nowhere  has 
greater  intellectual  activity  been  displayed  than 
in  the  search  for  the  conditions  under  which  the 
germs  of  the  moral  sense  first  present  them- 
selves, and  those  under  which  it  arises  to  an  ever 
fuller  consciousness  of  its  own  nature.  These 
circumstances  cannot,  I  believe,  account  for  the 
existence  of  the  moral  idea,  any  more  than,  in 
the  wise  judgment  of  its  founder,  the  theory  of 
natural  selection  can  account  for  life.  But  the 
moral  principle,  like  life,  must  have  had  a  begin- 
ning in  the  world  and  a  history.  There  must 
have  been  conditions  under  which  alone  its  first 
and  lowest  manifestations  were  possible,  and 
those  which  have  controlled  the  form  of  its 
development.  Let  it  be  that  it  is  in  its  source 
supernatural ;  it  must  yet,  as  the  Christian 
Church  itself  could  teach  us  in  the  story  of  its 
founder,  be  born  out  from  and  into  the  condi- 
tions of  the  earthly  history.  Thus,  though  we 
need  to  receive  with  the  most  cautious  criticism 
all  historical  results  offered  to  account  for  the 
rise  of  morality  in  the  world,  though  there 
needs  to  be  placed  a  check  on  the  rashness  of 
speculation  that  thinks  it  has  accounted  for 
everything  the  history  of  which  it  has  described, 


298  DUTY. 

we  may  have  only  welcome  for  all  efforts  to 
throw  light  upon  the  genesis  of  the  moral  idea, 
and  thus  to  solve  questions  perhaps  the  most 
important  and  the  most  difficult  of  any  that  grow 
out  of  our  human  history. 

Let  us  now  glance  at  certain  of  the  practical 
methods  of  the  new  ethics,  in  order  to  find  illus- 
trations of  some  of  the  characteristics  that  have 
been  described. 

It  need  hardly  be  remarked  that  in  the  new 
morality  it  is  the  active  virtues  that  bear  the 
palm.  It  was  once  enough,  as  Thoreau  phrases 
the  contrast,  that  the  saint  was  good ;  he  must 
now  show  himself  to  be  good  for  something. 
Virtue  is  not  merely  a  system  of  moral  gymnas- 
tics ;  it  is  the  striving  towards  certain  definite 
practical  results.  In  this  effort  the  most  delicate 
social  problems  receive  a  fresh  solution,  and  the 
most  fundamental  relations  a  fresh  adjustment. 

The  institution  of  marriage  offers  itself  as  one 
of  the  most  striking  examples  of  such  treatment. 
This  will  be  clear  if  we  consider  the  present  gen- 
eral recognition  of  divorce,  and  that  the  only 
churches  which  absolutely  condemn  divorce,  and 
forbid  their  clergy  to  marry  parties  that  have 
been  divorced,  are  those  which  are  bound  most 
firmly  to  the  old  order. 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  299 

The  relation  of  husband  and  wife,  and  in  gen- 
eral the  relation  of  woman  to  the  state,  has  un- 
dergone a  like  change.  The  new  morality  recog- 
nizes no  superiority  or  inferiority  between  the 
sexes.  It  may  admit  that  husband  and  wife  are 
one,  but  it  watches  with  impartial  interest  to  see, 
as  the  old  phrase  has  it,  which  is  the  one.  Or 
rather  it  regards  them  as  two,  each  having 
special  interests,  that  may  stretch  immeasurably 
on  either  side  beyond  what  is  included  in  the 
little  life  of  the  family.  Of  the  tendencies  that 
would  press  beyond  the  limits  I  have  named,  that 
would  do  away  with  the  restraints  of  marriage 
or  with  marriage  itself,  I  do  not  speak.  These 
represent  not  the  new  morality,  but  the  old  im- 
morality. 

In  the  larger  realm  of  the  state,  we  find  like 
changes.  Indeed,  here  the  relation  of  things  has 
been  completely  inverted.  Men  used  to  speak 
of  the  divine  right  of  the  king ;  now  the  talk  is  of 
the  divine  right  of  the  people.  Before,  the  great 
stress  was  laid  upon  submission  to  the  powers 
that  be  ;  now  the  great  stress  is  laid  upon  the 
duty  of  governments  to  their  citizens.  A  man's 
duties  to  the  state  are  those  which  he  wears  the 
lightest. 


300  DUTY. 

The  relation  of  the  different  members  of  the 
state  to  one  another  has  been  also  changed. 
Especially  is  this  true  of  the  relation  between  the 
rich  and  the  poor.  The  time  has  been  when  pov- 
erty was  felt  to  be,  to  some  extent,  a  mark  of 
sanctity.  Your  tramp  would  lack  little  of  being 
regarded,  if  not  as  a  saint,  at  least  as  a  very  good 
representative  of  one.  Poverty  was  regarded  as, 
in  a  double  sense,  a  means  of  grace.  The  poor 
themselves  were  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  ;  at  the  same  time  they  furnished  one  of 
the  readiest  means  of  salvation  to  their  richer 
neighbors.  It  was  the  poor  who  carried  the  souls 
of  the  rich  to  heaven.  Thus  poverty  was  to  be 
comforted  and  solaced.  It  was  to  be  in  some 
superficial  way  ameliorated.  The  poor  were  at 
any  event  to  be  kept  alive.  But  the  idea  of 
doing  away  with  poverty  would  have  been  con- 
sidered, if  not  sacrilegious,  at  least  hardly  desir- 
able. The  life  of  poverty  was  indeed  the  ideal 
life.  This  whole  state  of  things  has  changed. 
"  God's  poor,"  said  the  old  morality  ;  "  the 
Devil's  poor,"  would  say  the  new  if  it  spoke  its 
whole  thought.  Poverty  is  not  the  blessing,  but 
the  curse,  of  society.  The  whole  social  effort  is 
not  so  much  to  ameliorate  it  as  to  abolish  it. 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  301 

Charity,  instead  of  being  regarded  as  the  ideal 
virtue,  is,  at  least  under  its  old  form,  regarded 
as  a  weakness  if  not  as  a  vice.  "  If  you  would  help 
men,"  cries  the  new  morality,  "help  them  to 
help  themselves."  "  Give  to  him  that  asketh 
thee,"  cried  the  old.  "  Give  to  nobody  that  asks 
thee,"  cries  the  new ;  "  send  beggars  to  the  cen- 
tral committee ; "  and  to  this  central  committee 
it  says,  "  If  you  give  anything,  give  work."  In 
harmony  with  its  fundamental  principle,  the  new 
morality,  in  its  most  exaggerated  form,  would 
like  to  withhold  aid  altogether,  to  leave  only  the 
fittest  to  survive.  Since,  happily,  it  cannot  so 
far  suppress  the  natural  feelings  of  its  followers, 
it  would  at  least  simply  help  men  to  be  able  to 
hold  their  own  in  the  great  struggle.  Believing 
in  the  controlling  influence  of  the  environment, 
it  would  seek  to  bring  into  the  surroundings  of 
the  poor  all  cheerful  and  healthful  influences. 
When  superfluities  are  to  be  given  to  the  sick 
or  the  needy,  the  old  morality  would  give,  per- 
haps, tracts  ;  the  new  gives  flowers  and  fruits.  Its 
great  instrument  is,  under  one  form  or  another, 
education.  Its  highest  ambition  is,  however,  to 
so  use  the  laws  of  heredity  as  to  reach  the  best 
results.  It  would  introduce,  if  it  knew  how,  the 


3O2  DUTY. 

principle  of  artificial  selection.  It  is,  however, 
still  wrestling  with  the  lower  problem,  and  has 
hardly  dared  to  face  the  higher.  We  have  as  yet 
working  towards  that  end  little  save  statistics,  — 
those  advance-couriers  of  reform.  The  new  mo- 
rality in  its  natural  unexaggerated  shape  is  not 
less  charitable  than  the  old  ;  it  is  even  more  so. 
It  is  more  difficult  to  study  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  life  of  a  poor  person,  and  then  to  help  him 
as  he  may  need,  than  it  is  to  make  a  careless  gift 
of  money  ;  just  as  the  practice  of  a  scientific  phy- 
sician is  more  toilsome  than  that  of  a  quack  who 
has  his  one  panacea  for  every  ill.  And  when,  in 
the  future,  men  look  back  upon  the  path  up 
which  the  race  has  climbed,  I  believe  that  the 
saints  of  what  we  call  the  new  morality  will  re- 
ceive a  homage  of  gratitude  and  praise  equal,  at 
least,  to  that  rendered  to  the  noblest  saints  of 
the  old. 

The  treatment  of  vice  by  the  new  morality  is 
akin  to  its  treatment  of  poverty.  Heredity,  edu- 
cation, and  social  surroundings  are  the  influences  ' 
which  it  would  use  for  its  suppression.  The  old 
morality  would  teach  the  evils  of  intemperance. 
The  new  would  -open  the  "  People's  Club  "  and 
the  "  Holly  Tree  Inn."  Its  methods  may  be  in. 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  303 

sufficient ;  we  may  be  discouraged  by  seeing  the 
moral  failure  of  those  born  and  nurtured  appar- 
ently under  the  most  ideal  circumstances ;  but 
still  its  methods  are  those  which  are  indispensa- 
ble for  the  best  results.  They  are  indispensable, 
but  they  are  not  sufficient.  As  the  free  choice, 
on  which  the  old  morality  insists,  is,  as  we  have 
seen,  the  one  vital  point  in  any  act  by  which  it 
has  moral  quality,  so  the  appeal  to  this,  under 
one  form  or  another,  the  arousing  in  a  man  the 
sense  of  being  the  master  of  himself  and  of  his 
own  destinies ;  the  sense  of  the  absoluteness, 
even  of  the  awf ulness,  of  the  right,  —  all  of  this 
must  form  a  part,  and  the  highest  part,  of  any 
system  of  moral  training,  if  it  is  to  be  what  its 
name  implies. 

In  this  discussion  I  have  used  the  words  "new" 
and  "old"  in  a  somewhat  loose  and  general  sense. 
I  have  not  certainly  meant  to  imply  that  all  the 
characteristics  which  I  have  described  as  those 
of  the  new  ethics  are1  peculiar  to  the  morality  of 
this  generation.  Already,  in  the  beginning  of 
Christianity,  we  find  some  of  the  most  important 
of  them  expressed.  The  saying  of  Jesus,  "  The 
Sabbath  is  made  for  man,  not  man  for  the  Sab- 
bath," is  as  thoroughly  utilitarian  as  any  saying 


304  DUTY. 

could  be.  It  illustrates  even  the  utilitarian  radi- 
calism. A  like  radicalism  we  find  yet  more 
strongly  embodied  in  the  teaching  of  Paul,  who 
sought  to  emancipate  his  brethren  from  the 
whole  ceremonial  law  of  the  Jews,  not  even  de- 
terred by  the  thunders  of  Sinai  and  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  tables  of  Moses,  from  including  the 
Sabbath  itself  among  the  forms  that  were  to 
become  obsolete.  The  prayer  of  Jesus,  "  Father, 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do," 
and  the  cry  of  the  apostle,  "  Consider  thyself, 
lest  thou  also  be  tempted,"  embody  the  same 
kind  of  gracious  considerateness  that  we  found 
to  characterize  the  new  morality.  What  is  lack- 
ing is  the  practicality  that  comes  from  the  devel- 
opment of  the  science  of  political  economy,  and 
the  historical  results  which  had  no  place  in  the 
scheme  of  the  early  Church,  even  had  they  been 
within  the  reach  of  its  founders.  At  the  same 
time  the  New  Testament  ethics  are  all  alive  with 
that  consciousness  of  human  responsibility  which 
forms  the  chief  characteristic  of  what  I  have 
called  the  old  morality.  We  see  thus  strikingly 
illustrated  the  possibility  of  a  practical  recon- 
ciliation of  the  two  types.  We  see  also  an  ele- 
ment which  the  new  morality  must  never  leave 


THE  NEW  ETHICS.  305 

out  of  the  account,  if  it  would  perform  its  work 
aright. 

We  have  already  referred  to  the  higher  princi- 
ple of  love,  towards  which  both  forms  of  ethics 
point  as  the  fulfilling  of  all  law.  The  fact  that 
primitive  Christianity  was  the  embodied  love 
may  help  us  to  understand  how  it  could  hold  in 
solution  elements  so  diverse.  We  see  also  the 
greatest  need  of  the  new  morality,  and  perhaps 
its  greatest  peril.  Dealing  as  it  so  largely  does 
with  statistics,  starting  as  it  does  with  great 
general  principles,  it  may  be  in  danger  of  look- 
ing upon  men  too  much  in  the  mass.  The  truest 
helpfulness  does  hot  recognize  what  are  called 
the  masses ;  or,  if  it  recognizes  them,  it  is  only 
that  it  may  disintegrate  the  mass.  It  has  to  do 
with  individuals.  It  loves  not  merely  man  ;  still 
more  does  it  love  men.  It  was  this  warmth  and 
tenderness  of  personal  relationship  that  lent 
sometimes  a  certain  charm  even  to  what  were 
otherwise  the  most  repulsive  forms  of  the  old 
regime ;  and  it  is  this  that  the  new  morality 
must  know  how  to  blend  with  its  love  of  prin- 
ciples, if  it  would  replace,  or  more  truly  if  it 
would  worthily  fulfil,  the  Christian  ideal. 


IV.     CONCLUSION. 

POETRY,    COMEDY,   AND  DUTY, 

CONSIDERED    IN   THEIR    RELATION  TO  ONE 
ANOTHER. 

WE  have  thus  far  considered  poetry,  comedy, 
and  duty  in  their  separateness.  We  have  now 
to  indicate,  very  briefly,  their  relation  to  one 
another.  However  little  they  may  seem  to  have 
in  common,  they  together  fill  out  one  of  the 
most  important  departments  of  the  mental  life. 

It  is  evident  that  the  word  "poetry"  must 
here  be  used  in  its  largest  and  freest  sense. 
"  Comedy "  and  "  duty "  are  generic  terms. 
"  Poetry,"  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  and  in 
the  sense  in  which  I  have  thus  far  used  it,  is 
specific.  It  represents  one  form  of  art,  while 
art  itself,  represents  one  form  of  beauty.  Po- 
etry may,  however,  stand  as  the  representative 
of  the  whole  aesthetic  side  of  life ;  and,  in- 
deed, this  freer  use  is  not  wholly  foreign  to  the 
common  employment  of  the  term. 


POETRY,    COMEDY,  AND   DUTY.  307 

Poetry,  comedy,  and  duty  represent  each  a 
special  relation  to  the  environment,  so  far  as 
this  is  regarded  independently  of  any  personal 
end.  Science,  philosophy,  and  religion,  indeed, 
stand  very  close  to  the  field  thus  indicated. 
Science  and  philosophy  are,  however,  originally 
seekers.  So  far  as  fixed  results  are  reached, 
these  are  passed  over  to  the  practical  and  the 
ideal  life,  and  divided  between  them  :  that  is, 
either  they  are  adopted  into  the  world  of  per- 
sonal ends  ;  or  else  they  are  .made  objects  of  aes- 
thetic delight,  as  we  rejoice  in  the  beauty  and 
sublime  order  of  the  cosmos  that  is  revealed  to 
us  ;  or  they  give  new  breadth  and  sublimity  to  the 
law  of  duty.  Religion,  on  the  other  hand,  repre- 
sents a  relation  to  an  environment  regarded  as 
known.  In  it,  however,  personal  relations  have 
a  place;  and  in  it  the  sense  of -beauty  and  the 
moral  sense  find  their  fullest  development.  The 
department  that  we  have  assigned  to  poetry, 
comedy,  and  duty  thus  belongs  to  them  alone. 
They  together  make  up  our  relation  to  the  en- 
vironment ideally  considered ;  this  environment 
being  made  known  to  us  by  the  ordinary  expe- 
rience of  life,  and  in  a  truer  way  by  science, 
philosophy,  and  religious  faith. 


308  CONCLUSION. 

The  perception  of  the  comic  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  beauty  are  both  purely  contemplative. 
They  represent,  however,  different  forms  of  con- 
templation, and  wholly  different  attitudes  towards 
its  object. 

In  the  enjoyment  of  beauty,  the  relation  is 
one  of  absolute  sympathy.  The  spirit  feels  itself 
so  at  one  with  nature  that  the  freedom  and 
strength  of  nature  give  it  joy  through  the  very 
beholding  of  them.  In  the  comic  there  is  a 
complete  absence  of  sympathy.  The  spirit  holds 
itself  wholly  apart  from  and  above  the  object  of 
its  contemplation.  So  far  as  the  world  and  life 
are  considered  as  comic,  the  spirit  stands  over 
against  them  as  truly  as  if  it  belonged  to  an- 
other sphere.  Not  only  does  it  survey  the  ob- 
jects of  its  laughter  without  sympathy ;  as  we 
have  seen,  it  groups  them  according  to  its  own 
mood  and  caprice,  and  not  according  to  their 
own  fundamental  and  essential  relations.  In  the 
comic  we  have  thus  the  meeting  of  two  most 
widely  sundered  moods  of  the  soul.  In  one  as- 
pect it  appears  to  be  the  most  trivial  element 
of  life ;  yet  in  it  we  find  the  most  complete 
self-assertion  of  the  spirit.  This  self-assertion 
consists  in  the  fact  that  the  spirit  has  given  up 


POETRY,   COMEDY,  AND  DUTY.  309 

all  sense  of  bondage  to  the  world,  of  responsi- 
bility towards  it,  and  even  of  sympathy  with  it. 
It  desires  nothing  and  it  regrets  nothing.  It 
neither  loves  nor  hates.  It  is  simply  amused. 
It  stands  complete  in  itself,  and  content  with 
this  completeness. 

We  may  here  see  the  significance  of  the  fact 
referred  to  in  our  previous  discussion,  that  the 
perception  of  the  comic  is  peculiar  to  man.  We 
find  the  beginnings  of  the  sense  of  beauty,  even 
of  the  moral  sense,  among  the  animals.  It  is 
doubtful  if  there  is  with  them  any  hint  of  the 
sense  of  the  ludicrous.  It  is  odd  that  this  light- 
est aspect  of  life  is  the  one  in  which  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  spirit  most  manifests  itself.  In 
this  connection,  it  is  interesting  to  notice  that 
Homer  recognized  laughter  as  one  of  the  marks 
of  divinity.  The  "  inextinguishable  laughter " 
of  the  gods  marked  their  exaltation  above  all 
the  entanglements  and  perplexities  of  life.  It 
separated  them  more  truly  from  the  world  than 
their  undisturbed  bliss  did  the  gods  of  Epicu- 
rus. It  does  not  matter  that,  according  to  the 
Homeric  story,  the  laughter  of  the  gods  was 
not  inextinguishable  ;  that  the  sufferings  and 
the  contests  of  men  brought  trouble  and  dissen- 


310  CONCLUSION. 

sion  to  the  celestial  minds;  that  jealousies  and 
rancors  found  a  place  there.  The  phrase  shows 
an  ideal  of  the  divine  life,  even  if  the  ideal  was 
not  realized.  / 

Because  in  the  comic  is  found  a  special  char- 
acteristic of  the  spirit,  and  its  act  of  purest  or 
most  independent  self-assertion,  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  the  recognition  of  the  ludicrous  is  the 
highest  mood  of  the  soul,  or  that  "  inextinguish- 
able laughter"  is  the  truest  type  of  life.  That 
which  is  most  characteristic  need  not  be  that 
which  is  most  habitual.  Because  one  has  "a 
giant's  strength "  it  does  not  follow  that  one 
need  always  "  use  it  like  a  giant."  The  spirit, 
in  spite  of  the  possibility  of  thus  severing  itself 
from  any  sense  of  bondage  to  the  world,  is  not 
a  thing  apart  that  can  find  its  truest  existence 
in  this  isolation.  It  is  a  fundamental  principle 
of  the  spiritual  life,  that  the  truest  function  of 
independence  is  that  of  self-surrender. 

"  Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  Thine." 

In  the  enjoyment  of  beauty  the  spirit  is  no 
longer  in  solitude.  It  rejoices  in  the  life  about 
it,  in  that  life  of  which  it  feels  itself  a  part. 
The  relation  is  still,  however,  of  the  nature  of 


POETRY,   COMEDY,  AND    DUTY.  311 

play.  The  difference  is  that  while  in  the  comic 
the  spirit  makes  sport  of  the  world,  in  the  en- 
joyment of  beauty  it  shares  the  play  of  the  com- 
mon life.  There  is  a  sense  of  freedom  and 
exaltation.  The  spirit  stands  on  equal  terms 
with  the  world  about  it,  except  as  the  superiority 
of  the  world  is  shown  by  its  lavish  ness.  The 
spirit  is  the  recipient  of  the  best  gift  of  the 
outward  nature;  that  is,  the  gift  of  herself.  It 
is  a  recipient  only  and  need  make  no  return. 

In  duty  the  relation  has  become  yet  more 
profound.  The  spirit  feels  the  power  of  the 
laws  that  control  the  universe.  Earnestness  has 
taken  the  place  of  play.  Subjection  has  taken 
that  of  freedom.  It  is  a  subjection,  indeed,  by 
which  the  spirit  feels  itself  ennobled.  There 
is  a  dignity  in  duty  that  is  absent  from  the 
play  of  the  comic  ;  a  grandeur  that  is  absent 
even  from  the  joy  of  beauty. 

In  the  comic,  then,  we  have  an  indication  of 
that  independence  of  the  spiritual  life  by  which 
it  is  fitted  for  the  highest  destiny.  In  the  en- 
joyment of  beauty,  and  in  obedience  to  the  law 
of  righteousness,  this  destiny  is  fulfilled.  In 
the  comic,  the  freedom  of  the  spirit  is  an  empty 
freedom.  In  the  enjoyment  of  beauty  the  spirit, 


312  CONCLUSION. 

while  no  less  free  than  before,  finds  its  joy  in 
the  concrete  reality  of  the  world.  In  duty  it 
has  found  an  object  worthy  of  its  highest  devo- 
tion, and  has  surrendered  itself  to  this,  finding 
in  this  surrender  the  full  and  free  realization  of 
itself. 

We  have  thus  far,  in  the  comparison,  regarded 
poetry  as  representing  in  general  the  poetic  or 
aesthetic  side  of  life.  If  we  take  the  term  in  its 
narrower  and  more  literal  sense,  we  find  that 
poetry  and  duty  are  both  creators.  Both  seek 
to  embody  an  ideal  in  some  perfectly  fitting 
shape.  Poetry  produces  its  creations  to  supple- 
ment the  world.  Art  rears  temples,  which,  in 
the  words  of  Emerson  already  quoted,  nature 
adopts  into  her  race.  Shakespeare  creates  a 
world  of  characters  and  events  which  takes  its 
place  by  the  side  of  the  world  of  actual  persons 
and  events.  Duty,  on  the  other  hand,  seeks  to 
embody  its  ideal  in  life.  It  seeks  not  to  supple- 
ment, but  to  transform,  the  actual.  The  relation 
of  comedy  to  these  two,  so  far  as  this  aspect  of 
the  case  is  concerned,  is  primarily  that  of  pure 
and  direct  negation.  Not  merely  does  comedy 
recognize  no  ideals ;  in  its  freest  and  largest 
sweep  it  denies  them,  and  makes  war  upon  the 


POETRY,    COMEDY,  AND  DUTY.  313 

very  semblance  of  them.  From  this  point  of 
view,  the  Mephistopheles  of  Goethe  is  the  incar- 
nation of  laughter. 

The  comic  depends,  however,  as  we  have  al- 
ready seen,  upon  the  character,  mood,  or  stand- 
point of  the  individual.  We  must  not  forget  that 
there  are  two  positions  which  are  diametrically 
opposed  to  one  another :  that  of  Mephistopheles, 
and  that  of  the  earnest  spirit  which  is  striving 
to  fulfil  the  highest  ideals  of  life.  Each  is  ridicu- 
lous to  the  other.  The  very  essence  of  Mephis- 
topheles is  that  to  him  all  ideals  are  intrinsi- 
cally and  absolutely  absurd.  From  the  other 
point  of  view,  Mephistopheles  is  seen  to  be  more 
ridiculous  than  the  world  appeared  to  him.  To 
live  among  the  infinite  realities,  to  live  within 
the  reach  of  the  inspiration  that  comes  from  the 
beauties  and  sublimities  of  nature  and  from  the 
heroic  deeds  of  man,  and  to  find  only  emptiness 
and  vanity,  —  this,  as  seen  from  the  higher  van- 
tage-ground, is  the  height  of  absurdity.  Thus 
the  great  heroes  of  the  world  have  often  been 
also  good  laughers. 

When  we  studied  the  comic  as  such,  we  saw 
that  there  was  nothing  laughable  in  itself.  When 
we  look  at  the  matter  in  relation  to  poetry  and 


314  CONCLUSION. 

duty,  we  see  that  there  is  another  side  to  this 
truth.  The  sense  of  the  comic  is  not  the  only  or 
the  supreme  factor  in  human  nature.  The  sense 
of  beauty  and  the  moral  sense  have  also  their 
place  in  the  normally  developed  mind.  What 
appears  absurd  to  the  fully  developed  spirit  may, 
in  a  sense,  be  regarded  as  absurd  in  itself.  The 
difference  between  that  which  is  ludicrous  to  it 
and  that  which  is  ludicrous  to  the  mere  mocker 
is  still  merely  subjective ;  but  it  is  the  difference 
between  the  subjectivity  of  a  nature  which  is 
rounded  and  complete,  and  that  of  one  which 
lacks  some  of  the  most  important  elements  of  the 
spiritual  life.  The  aspect  of  the  universe  varies, 
indeed,  with  our  point  of  view  ;  but  we  must  be- 
lieve that  there  is  a  true  point  of  view  which  we 
can  approximate,  although  we  may  never  reach 
it.  Even  from  this  the  comic  is  not  excluded, 
and  the  mind  is  imperfect  that  has  no  recogni- 
tion of  it  Not  only  may  the  spirit  be  refreshed 
by  the  comicalities  that  are  merely  superficial ; 
the  lower  life,  as  we  have  seen,  has  its  absurd 
as  well  as  its  tragic  aspect.  Thus  comedy  may 
be  the  helper  of  the  higher  life  in  which  the  love 
of  beauty  and  the  moral  sense  have  the  control- 
ling place. 


POETRY,    COMEDY,  AND  DUTY  315 

Comedy  is  the  corrector  as  truly  as  the  helper 
of  the  earnest  life.  Without  it  the  poetic  may 
become  the  sentimental,  and  the  heroic  the  bur- 
lesque. 

Thus  we  cannot  enough  admire  the  complete- 
ness of  the  relation  between  these  three.  Com- 
edy, within  its  due  place,  keeps  the  spirit  sane. 
Through  it  the  spirit  preserves  the  freshness  and 
bloom  of  its  life,  even  while  it  surrenders  itself 
to  the  charms  of  beauty,  and  yields  itself  to  be 
the  instrument  of  "  the  Power  that  makes  for 
righteousness."  The  path  of  duty  is,  indeed, 
the  path  of  life  ;  but  happy  is  he  who  can  press, 
sometimes  laughing  and  sometimes  singing, 
upon  his  way. 


/oo 
fl**m*^ 


A     000138482     5 


